SIX  PLAYS 

By  FLORENCE  HENRIETTA  DARWIN 
with  an  Introduction  by  CECIL  SHARP 

and  a 
Memoir  and  Portrait  of  the  Author 


W.   HEFFER    €?  SONS  LTD,, 
CAMBRIDGE,  1921, 


THE   LOVERS'    TASKS 
&   FIVE   OTHER   PLAYS 


LONDON  AGENTS 
SIMPKIN,  MARSHALL,  HAMILTON,  KENT  &  Co.  Ltd. 


FLORENCE  HENRIETTA  DARWIN. 


-f«-1     I 


SIX    PLAYS 

By     FLORENCE     HENRIETTA      DARWIN 
and  an  Introduction  by   CECIL   SHARP 

Memoir   and    Portrait    of   the    Author 


W.    HEFFER    &    SONS    LTD., 
CAMBRIDGE,     1921. 


SIX  PLAYS 

BY 

FLORENCE  HENRIETTA  DARWIN 

The  Plays  may  be  had  in  paper  covers  at 
Is.  6d.  net  as  under 

1.  LOVERS'  TASKS 

2.  BUSHES  &  BRIARS 

3.  MY  MAN  JOHN 

4.  PRINCESS  ROYAL 


5.  THE  SEEDS  OF  LOVE 

6.  THE  NEW  YEAR 


In  one 
volume 


W.   HEFFER   &   SONS   LTD. 
CAMBRIDGE 


INTRODUCTION 

IHAVE  been  asked  to  write  a  few  lines  of  introduction 
to  these  volumes  of  Country  Plays,  and  I  do  so,  not 
because  I  can  claim  any  right  to  speak  with  authority  on 
the  subject  of  drama,  but  in  order  that  I  may  associate 
myself  and  express  my  sympathy  with  the  endeavour 
which  the  author  has  made  to  restore  to  his  rightful 
estate  the  English  peasant  with  whom  my  work  for 
twenty  years  or  more  has  brought  me  into  close  relations. 

There  have  been  few  serious  attempts  to  depict 
English  country  life  on  the  stage.  Nor,  for  that  matter, 
can  it  be  said  that  the  English  peasant  has  fared  over 
well  in  our  literature.  Nevertheless,  the  English 
countryman  has  qualities  all  his  own,  no  less  distinctive 
nor  less  engaging  than  those  of  his  Irish,  Scottish, 
Russian,  or  Continental  neighbours,  even  though  his 
especial  characteristics  have  hitherto  been  for  the  most 
part  either  ignored  or  grossly  travestied  by  the  play- 
wright. Now  in  these  plays,  as  it  seems  to  me,  he  has 
at  last  come  into  his  own  kingdom  and  is  painted, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  on  the  stage,  in  his  true 
colours,  neither  caricatured  on  the  one  hand,  nor,  on 
the  other,  sentimentalised,  but  faithfully  portrayed  by 
a  peculiarity  sympathetic  and  skilful  hand. 

It  is  well,  too,  that  an  authentic  record  should  be 
preserved  of  the  life  that  has  been  lived  in  our  country 
villages  year  in  year  out  for  centuries  before  its  last 
vestiges — and  they  are  all  that  now  remain — have  been 
completely  submerged  in  the  oncoming  tide  of  modern 
civilisation  and  progress.  Moreover,  the  songs  and 
dances  of  the  English  peasantry  that  have  become 
widely  known  in  the  last  few  years  have  awakened  a 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

general  interest  and  curiosity  in  all  that  concerns  the 
fives  and  habits  of  country  people  and  there  are  many 
who  will  be  glad  to  know  what  manner  of  men  and 
women  were  they  who  created  things  of  so  rare  and 
delicate  a  beauty. 

These  plays  are  very  simple  plays.  With  one  excep- 
tion, "  The  New  Year, ' '  they  rest  for  their  effects  upon 
dialogue  rather  than  upon  dramatic  action  or  plot. 
There  is  nothing  harrowing,  problematical,  or  patho- 
logical about  any  of  them.  The  stories  are  as  simple, 
obvious  and  naive,  and  have  the  same  happy  endings  as 
those  which  the  folk  delight  to  sing  about  in  their  own 
songs,  and  from  which,  indeed,  judging  by  the  titles 
she  has  given  to  her  plays,  the  author  drew  her  in- 
spiration. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  Lady  Darwin  has  eliminated 
dialect  from  the  speech  which  she  has  put  into  the 
mouths  of  her  characters.  This  is  not  because  the 
English  villager  has  no  vernacular  of  his  own — there 
are  as  many  dialects  in  England  as  there  are  counties — 
but  because  dialect,  as  no  doubt  Lady  Darwin  knew  full 
well,  is  not  of  the  essence  of  speech.  It  is  the  way  in 
which  language  is  used  for  the  purpose  of  expression, 
the  order  in  which  words  are  strung  together,  the  subtle, 
elusive  turns  of  speech,  the  character  of  its  figures  and 
metaphors,  rather  than  local  peculiarities  of  intonation 
and  pronunciation,  which  betray  and  illumine  character. 
And  it  is  upon  these,  the  essential  characteristics  of 
speech,  that  the  author  of  these  plays  has  wisely  and, 
for  the  most  part,  wholly,  relied  to  give  lif e  and  character 
to  the  actors  of  her  dramas.  The  results  she  has 
achieved  by  these  means  is  nothing  less  than  amazing. 
So  accurately  has  she  caught  the  peculiar  inflections, 
the  inversions,  the  curious  meanderings  and  involutions 
of  peasant  speech,  so  penetrating — uncanny  at  times — 
is  her  insight  into  the  structure  and  working  of  the 
peasant  mind,  that,  did  one  not  know  that  this  was 
scarcely  the  fact,  one  would  have  been  tempted  to 
suspect  that  the  author  had  herself  been  born  and  bred 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

in  a  country  village  and  lived  all  her  days  amongst 
those  whose  characters  and  habits  of  mind  she  has 
described  with  such  fidelity. 

Take,  for  instance,  the  lesson  on  courtship  which  My 
Man  John  gives  to  his  master — is  not  the  actual  phrasing 
almost  photographic  in  its  accuracy  ?  Note,  too,  the 
frequent  use  of  homely  metaphor  : — 

'Tis  with  the  maids  as  'tis  with  the  fowls  when  they 
be  come  out  from  moult.  They  be  bound  to  pick 
about  this  way  and  that  in  their  new  feathers. 

I  warrant  she  be  gone  shy  as  a  May  bettel  when  'tis 
daylight. 

Ah,  you  take  and  let  her  go  quiet,  same  as  I  lets  th' 
old  mare  when  her  first  comes  up  from  grass. 

I  likes  doing  things  my  own  way,  mother.  Women- 
folk, they  be  so  buzzing.  'Tis  like  a  lot  of  insects 
around  of  any  one  on  a  summer's  day.  A-saying 
this  way  and  that — whilst  a  man  do  go  at  every- 
thing quiet  and  calm-like. 

and  the  following  typical  sentences : — 

Well,  mother,  I  count  I'm  back  a  smartish  bit  sooner 
nor  what  you  did  expect. 

There  was  a  cow — well,  'tis  a  smartish  lot  of  cows  as 
I've  seen  in  my  time,  but  this  one,  why,  the  king 
haven't  got  the  match  to  she  in  all  his  great  palace, 
and  that's  the  truth,  so  'tis. 

I  bain't  one  as  can  judge  of  that,  my  lord,  seeing  that 
I  be  got  a  poor  old  badger  of  a  man,  and  the  days 
when  I  was  young  and  did  carry  a  heart  what  could 
beat  with  love,  be  ahind  of  I,  and  the  feel  of  them 
clean  forgot. 

The  task  of  selection  has  not  been  an  easy  one. 
"  The  New  Year  "  is  the  only  Country  play  on  large 
and  ambitious  lines  which  Lady  Darwin  left  behind 
her,  and  it  is  on  this  account,  as  well  as  for  its  own 
merits,  which  I  venture  to  think  are  very  considerable, 
that  it  has  been  included.  "  Princess  Royal "  was 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

written  for  a  special  occasion,  and  is  frankly  more 
conventional  and  artificial  than  the  others,  but  it  will 
nevertheless  appeal  to  folk-dancers,  and  for  that  reason, 
rather  than  perhaps  for  its  intrinsic  value,  room  has 
been  found  for  it.  The  remaining  four  are,  in  their 
several  ways,typical  of  the  author's  work,  and  I  for 
one  have  little  doubt  but  that  they  will  make  a  wide 
appeal,  more  especially  perhaps  to  those  simple-minded 
people  (of  whom  I  am  persuaded  there  are  many,  even 
in  these  latter-days)  who  are  able  to  appreciate  the 
unpretentious  beauty  of  an  art  that  is  well-nigh  artless 
in  its  simplicity.  Some  of  them  may  be  too  slight  in 
design,  too  delicate  in  texture,  their  beauty  too  elusive, 
to  succeed  on  the  professional  stage  ;  I  do  not  know. 
But  there  is  a  large  demand  for  plays  of  a  non- 
professional  character  ;  and  that  Lady  Darwin's  will 
be  acted  with  pleasure  and  listened  to  with  delight 
in  hut  or  hall  or  country-house  of  a  winter's  evening, 
I  cannot  doubt. 

CECIL  SHARP. 


FLORENCE  HENRIETTA  DARWIN 

FLORENCE  HENRIETTA  FISHER  was  born  at  3,  Onslow 
Square,  London,  in  the  year  1864;  but  to  those  of  a 
younger  generation  it  seemed  that  nearly  the  whole  of 
her  youth  had  been  spent  in  the  New  Forest,  so  largely 
did  it  figure  in  her  stories  of  the  past.  It  was  at 
Whitley  Ridge,  Brockenhurst,  that  her  earliest  plays 
were  written,  and  many  marvellous  characters  created; 
their  names  still  live.  It  was  there  that  she  became  a 
very  good  violin  player,  as  well  as  a  musician  in  a  wider 
sense.  It  was  in  Brockenhurst  Church  that,  in  1886, 
she  married  Frederic  William  Maitland,  later  Downing 
professor  of  the  laws  of  England. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Maitland  lived  in  Cambridge;  for  the 
first  two  years  at  Brookside,  and  afterwards  in  the 
West  Lodge  of  Downing  College. 

Along  with  her  love  of  music  there  had  begun,  and 
there  continued  a  love  of  animals,  and,  from  Moses,  a 
dog  of  Brockenhurst  days,  there  stretched  down  a  long 
procession  of  dogs,  cats,  monkeys,  foxes,  moles,  merecats, 
mongeese,  bush  cats  and  marmosets,  accompanied  by  a 
variety  of  birds.  If  such  a  thing  as  a  dumb  animal  has 
ever  existed  it  certainly  was  not  one  of  hers,  for,  besides 
what  they  were  able  to  say  for  themselves,  they  spoke 
much  through  her.  Not  only  were  they  able  to  recount 
all  that  had  happened  to  them  in  past  home  or  jungle, 
they  were  perfectly  able  to  give  advice  in  every  situation 
and  to  join  in  every  discussion.  Neither  were  their 
pens  less  ready  than  their  tongues,  and  many  were  the 
letters  of  flamboyant  script  and  misspelt  word  that  came 
forth  from  cage  or  basket. 

Frederic  William  Maitland  possessed  a  small  property 
at  Brookthorpe,  Gloucestershire ;  and  near  this  property, 
in  a  house  in  the  village  of  Edge  and  at  the  top  of  the 
Horsepools  hill,  he  and  his  wife  and  their  two  children 


x  FLORENCE  HENRIETTA  DARWIN 

spent  most  of  their  holidays.  They  were  happy  days. 
Animals  increased  in  number  and  rejoiced  in  freedom, 
fairs  were  attended,  dancing  bears  and  bird  carts  came 
at  intervals  to  the  door,  gipsies  were  delighted  in  and 
protected,  and  It  was  there  that  many  friendships  with 
country  people  were  made.  Several  days  a  week  would 
find  Mrs.  Maitland  driving  down  to  Brookthorpe  in 
donkey  or  pony  cart  to  see  tenants,  to  enquire  for  or 
feed  the  sick,  to  visit  the  school,  to  advise  and  be  advised 
in  the  many  difficulties  of  human  life.  With  a  wonderful 
memory  and  power  of  reproducing  that  which  she  had 
heard,  she  brought  back  rare  harvest  from  these  expedi- 
tions. All  through  her  days  she  was  told  more  in  a 
week  than  many  people  hear  in  a  life-time. 

After  much  illness,  Professor  Maitland  was  told  that 
he  must  leave  England,  and  in  1898  the  Maitlands  set 
sail  to  the  island  of  Grand  Canary ;  and  it  was  there  that 
they  spent  each  winter,  with  the  exception  of  one  in 
Madeira,  until  Professor  Maitland 's  death  in  1906. 
The  beauty  and  warmth  of  the  island  were  a  joy  to  Mrs. 
Maitland,  washing  out  all  the  difficulties  of  house- 
keeping and  the  labour  of  cooking.  The  day  of  hardest 
work  still  left  her  time  to  set  forth,  accompanied  by  a 
faithful  one-legged  hen,  to  seek  the  shade  of  chestnut 
or  loquat  tree,  and  there  to  write.  The  song  of  frogs 
rising  from  watery  palm  grove,  the  hot  dusty  scent  of 
pepper  tree,  the  cool  scent  of  orange,  the  mountains 
sharp  and  black  against  the  evening  sky,  the  brightly 
coloured  houses  crowded  to  the  brink  of  still  brighter 
sea,  were  all  things  she  loved,  and  their  images  remained 
with  her  always.  She  became  an  expert  talker  of  what 
she  called  kitchen  Spanish,  and  her  store  of  country 
history  increased  greatly,  for,  from  Candelaria,  the 
washer-woman  to  Don  Luis  the  grocer,  she  met  no  one 
who  was  not  ready  to  tell  her  all  the  marvels  that  ever 
they  knew. 

In  1906  Frederic  William  Maitland  landed  on  the 
island  too  ill  to  reach  the  house  that  Mrs.  Maitland  had 
gone  out  earlier  to  prepare  for  him.  He  was  taken  to  an 


FLORENCE  HENRIETTA   DARWIN          xi 

hotel  in  the  city  of  Las  Palmas,  and  there,  on  December 
the  19th,  he  died. 

In  the  spring  of  1907  Mrs.  Maitland  returned  to 
England. 

In  1909  she  added  on  to  a  small  farm  house  at  Brook- 
thorpe,  and  there  she  went  to  live.  She  was  thus  able 
to  renew  many  friendships,  and  in  some  slight  degree 
take  up  the  life  that  had  been  so  dear  to  her.  It  was 
during  these  last  eleven  years  at  Brookthorpe  that  she 
wrote  all  her  plays  dealing  with  country  people;  the 
first  for  a  class  of  village  children  to  whom  she  taught 
singing,  the  later  ones  in  response  to  a  growing  demand 
not  only  from  other  Gloucestershire  villages,  but  from 
village  clubs  and  institutes  scattered  over  a  large  part 
of  England.  She  saw  several  of  her  plays  acted  by  the 
Oakridge  and  the  Sapperton  players,  and  these  per- 
formances and  letters  from  other  performers  gave  her 
great  pleasure. 

In  1913  she  married  Sir  Francis  Darwin.  Their  life 
at  Brookthorpe  was  varied  by  months  spent  at  his  house 
in  Cambridge.  It  was  there  that  she  died  on  March  5th, 
1920. 

During  her  last  years  she  had  much  illness  to  contend 
with .  Unable  to  play  her  violin,  she  turned  to  the  spinet. 
She  practised  for  hours,  wrote  plays,  and  attended  to 
her  house  when  many  would  have  lain  in  their  beds. 

Her  religion  became  of  increasingly  great  comfort  and 
interest  to  her,  and  it  was  in  that  light  that  she  came, 
more  and  more,  to  look  at  all  things. 

In  the  minds  of  many  who  knew  her  in  those  years 
rose  up  the  words:  I  have  fought  a  good  fight. 

E.  M. 


THE    LOVERS'    TASKS 


L.T.  1 


CHARACTERS 

FARMER  DANIEL, 
ELIZABETH,  his  wife. 
MILLIE,  her  daughter. 
ANNEX,  his  niece. 
MAY,  Annet's  sister,  aged  ten. 
GILES,  their  brother. 
ANDREW,  a  rich  young  farmer. 

GEORGE     1  ~ ., 

I  servants  to  Giles. 
JOHN 

AN  OLD  MAN. 


THE   LOVERS'   TASKS. 


ACT  I.— Scene  1. 

The  parlour  at   Camel  Farm. 
Time  :    An  afternoon  in  May. 

ELIZABETH  is  sewing  by  the  table  with  ANNET.     At  the 
open  doorway  MAY  is  polishing  a  bright  mug. 

ELIZABETH.  [Looking  tip.]  There's  Uncle,  back  from 
the  Fair. 

MAY.  [Looking  out  of  the  door.]  0  Uncle's  got  some 
rare  big  packets  in  his  arms,  he  has. 

ELIZABETH.  Put  down  that  mug  afore  you  damage  it, 
May  ;  and,  Annet,  do  you  go  and  help  your  uncle  in. 

MAY.  [Setting  down  the  mug.]  0  let  me  go  along  of 
her  too — 

[ANNET  rises  and  goes  to  the  door  followed  by 
MAY,  who  has  dropped  her  polishing  leather 
upon  the  ground. 

ELIZABETH.  [Picking  it  up  and  speaking  to  herself  in 
exasperation.]  If  ever  there  was  a  careless  little  wench, 
'tis  she.  I  never  did  hold  with  the  bringing  up  of  other 
folks  children  and  if  I'd  had  my  way,  'tis  to  the  poor- 
house  they'd  have  went,  instead  of  coming  here  where 
I've  enough  to  do  with  my  own. 

[The  FARMER  comes  in  followed  by  ANNET  and 

MAY  carrying  large  parcels. 

DANIEL.  Well  Mother,  I  count  I'm  back  a  smartish 
bit  sooner  nor  what  you  did  expect. 


4  THE   LOVERS'   TASKS  ACT  i 

ELIZABETH  .  I  'm  not  one  that  can  be  taken  by  surprise, 
Dan.  May,  lay  that  parcel  on  the  table  at  once,  and  put 
away  your  uncle's  hat  and  overcoat. 

DAN.  Nay,  the  overcoat's  too  heavy  for  the  little 
maid — I'll  hang  it  up  myself. 

[He  takes  off  his  coat  and  goes  out  into  the 
passage  to  hang  it  up.  May  runs  after 
him  with  his  hat. 

ANNET.  I  do  want  to  know  what's  in  all  those  great 
packets,  Aunt. 

ELIZABETH.  I  daresay  you'll  be  told  all  in  good 
season.  Here,  take  up  and  get  on  with  that  sewing,  I 
dislike  to  see  young  people  idling  away  their  time. 

[The  FARMER  and  MAY  come  back. 

MAY.     And  now,  untie  the  packets  quickly,  uncle. 

DANIEL.  [Sinking  into  a  big  chair.]  Not  so  fast,  my 
little  maid,  not  so  fast — 'tis  a  powerful  long  distance  as  I 
have  journeyed  this  day,  and  'tis  wonderful  warm  for 
the  time  of  year. 

ELIZABETH.  I  don't  hold  with  drinking  nor  with 
taking  bites  atween  meals,  but  as  your  uncle  has  come 
a  good  distance,  and  the  day  is  warm,  you  make  take 
the  key  of  the  pantry,  Annet,  and  draw  a  glass  of  cider 
for  him. 

[She  takes  the  key  from  her  pocket  and  hands  it 
to  ANNET,  who  goes  out. 

DANIEL.  That's  it,  Mother — that's  it.  And  when 
I've  wetted  my  mouth  a  bit  I'll  be  able  the  better  to  tell 
you  all  about  how  'twas  over  there. 

MAY.  0  I'd  dearly  like  to  go  to  a  Fair,  I  would.  You 
always  said  that  you'd  take  me  the  next  time  you  went, 
Uncle. 

DANIEL.  Ah  and  so  I  did,  but  when  I  corned  to  think 
it  over,  Fairs  baint  the  place  for  little  maids,  I  says  to 
mother  here— and  no,  that  they  baint,  she  answers  back. 
But  we'll  see  how  'tis  when  you  be  growed  a  bit  older, 
like.  Us'll  see  how  'twill  be  then,  won't  us  Mother  ? 

ELIZABETH.  I  wouldn't  encourage  the  child  in  her 
nonsense,  if  I  was  you,  Dan.  She's  old  enough  to  know 


ACT  i  THE   LOVERS'   TASKS  5 

better  than  to  ask  to  be  taken  to  such  places.  Why  in 
all  my  days  I  never  set  my  foot  within  a  fair,  pleasure 
or  business,  nor  wanted  to,  either. 

MAY.  And  never  rode  on  the  pretty  wood  horses, 
Aunt,  all  spotted  and  with  scarlet  bridles  to  them  ? 

ELIZABETH.  Certainly  not.  I  wonder  at  your  asking 
such  a  question,  May.  But  you  do  say  some  very  un- 
suitable things  for  a  little  child  of  your  age. 

MAY.  And  did  you  get  astride  of  the  pretty  horses 
at  the  Fair,  Uncle  ? 

DANIEL.  Nay,  nay, — they  horses  be  set  in  the  pleasure 
part  of  the  Fair,  and  where  I  goes  'tis  all  for  doing 
business  like. 

[ANNET  comes  back  with  the  glass   of  cider. 
DANIEL  takes  it  from  her. 

DANIEL.  [Drinking.}  You  might  as  well  have 
brought  the  jug,  my  girl. 

ELIZABETH.  No,  Father,  'twill  spoil  your  next  meal 
as  it  is. 

[The  girls  sit  down  at  the  table,  taking  up  their 
work. 

DANIEL.  [Putting  down  his  glass.]  But,  bless  my 
soul,  yon  was  a  Fair  in  a  hundred.  That  her  was. 

BOTH  GIRLS.  0  do  tell  us  of  all  that  you  did  see  there, 
Uncle. 

DANIEL.  There  was  a  cow — well,  'tis  a  smartish  lot  of 
cows  as  I've  seen  in  my  time,  but  this  one,  why,  the 
King  haven't  got  the  match  to  she  in  all  his  great  palace, 
and  that's  the  truth,  so  'tis. 

ANNET.  0  don't  tell  us  about  the  cows,  Uncle,  we 
want  to  know  about  all  the  other  things. 

MAY.  The  shows  of  acting  folk,  and  the  wild  animals, 
and  the  nice  sweets. 

ELIZABETH.  They  don't  want  to  hear  about  anything 
sensible,  Dan.  They're  like  all  the  maids  now,  with 
their  thoughts  set  on  pleasuring  and  foolishness. 

DANIEL.  Ah,  the  maids  was  different  in  our  day, 
wasn't  they  Mother  ? 

ELIZABETH.     And  that  they  were.    Why,  when  I  was 


6  THE   LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  i 

your  age,  Annet,  I  should  have  been  ashamed  if  I 
couldn't  have  held  my  own  in  any  proper  or  suitable 
conversation. 

DANIEL.     Ah,  you  was  a  rare  sensible  maid  in  your 
day,  Mother.     Do  you  mind  when  you  corned  along  of 
me  to  Kingham  sale  ?     "  You're  never  going  to  buy  an 
animal  with  all  that  white  to  it,  Dan,"  you  says  to  me. 
ELIZABETH.    Ah — I  recollect. 

DANIEL.  "  'Tis  true  her  has  a  whitish  leg,"  I  says, 
"  but  so  have  I,  and  so  have  you,  Mother — and  who's 
to  think  the  worse  on  we  for  that  ?  "  Ah,  I  could  always 
bring  you  round  to  look  at  things  quiet  and  reasonable 
in  those  days — that  I  could. 

ELIZABETH.  And  a  good  thing  if  there  were  others 
of  the  same  pattern  now,  I'm  thinking. 

DANIEL.  So  'twould  be — so  'twould  be.  But  times 
do  bring  changes  in  the  forms  of  the  cattle  and  I  count 
'tis  the  same  with  the  womenfolk.  'Tis  one  thing  this 
year  and  'tis  t'other  in  the  next. 

MAY.  Do  tell  us  more  of  what  you  did  see  at  the  Fair, 
Uncle. 

DANIEL.    There  was  a  ram.    My  word  !  but  the  four 
feet  of  he  did  cover  a  good  two  yards  of  ground  ;   just 
as  it  might  be,  standing. 
ELIZABETH.    Come,  Father. 

DANIEL.  And  the  horns  upon  the  head  of  he  did  reach 
out  very  nigh  as  far  as  might  do  the  sails  of  one  of  they 
old  wind-mills. 

MAY.  0  Uncle,  and  how  was  it  with  the  wool  of  him  ? 
DANIEL.  The  wool,  my  wench,  did  stand  a  good 
three  foot  from  all  around  of  the  animal.  You  might 
have  set  a  hen  with  her  eggs  on  top  of  it — and  that  you 
might.  And  now  I  comes  to  recollect  how  'twas,  you 
could  have  set  a  hen  one  side  of  the  wool  and  a  turkey 
t'other. 

MAY.  0  Uncle,  that  must  have  been  a  beautiful 
animal !  And  what  was  the  tail  of  it  ? 

DANIEL.  The  tail,  my  little  maid  ?  Why  'twas 
longer  nor  my  arm  and  as  thick  again — 'twould  have 


ACT  i  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  7 

served  as  a  bell  rope  to  the  great  bell  yonder  in  Gloucester 
church— and  so  'twould.  Ah,  'twas  sommat  like  a  tail, 
I  reckon,  yon. 

ELIZABETH.  Come,  Father,  such  talk  is  hardly  suited 
to  little  girls,  who  should  know  better  than  to  ask  so 
many  teasing  questions. 

ANNEX.  'Tisn't  only  May,  Aunt,  I  do  love  to  hear 
what  uncle  tells,  when  he  has  been  out  for  a  day  or 
two. 

ELIZABETH.  And  did  you  have  company  on  the  way 
home,  Father  ? 

DANIEL.  That  I  did.  'Twas  along  of  young  Andrew 
as  I  did  come  back. 

ELIZABETH.  Along  of  Andrew  ?  Girls,  you  may  now 
go  outside  into  the  garden  for  a  while.  Yes,  put  aside 
your  work. 

MAY.    Can't  we  stop  till  the  packets  are  opened  ? 

ELIZABETH.  You  heard  what  I  said  ?  Go  off  into  the 
garden,  and  stop  there  till  I  send  for  you.  And  take 
uncle's  glass  and  wash  it  at  the  spout  as  you  go. 

ANNET.  [Taking  the  glass.]  I'll  wash  it,  Aunt. 
Come  May,  you  see  aunt  doesn't  want  us  any  longer. 

MAY.  Now  they're  going  to  talk  secrets  together. 
0  I  should  dearly  love  to  hear  the  secrets  of  grown-up 
people.  [ANNET  and  MAY  go  out  together. 

DANIEL.  Annet  be  got  a  fine  big  wench,  upon  my 
word.  Now  haven't  her,  Mother  ? 

ELIZABETH.  She's  got  old  enough  to  be  put  to 
service,  and  if  I'd  have  had  my  way,  'tis  to  service  she'd 
have  gone  this  long  time  since,  and  that  it  is. 

DANIEL.  'T would  be  poor  work  putting  one  of  dead 
sister's  wenches  out  to  service,  so  long  as  us  have  a  roof 
over  the  heads  of  we  and  plenty  to  eat  on  the  table. 

ELIZABETH.  Well,  you  must  please  yourself  about 
it  Father,  as  you  do  most  times.  But  'tis  uncertain  work 
taking  up  with  other  folks  children  as  I  told  you  from 
the  first.  See  what  a  lot  of  trouble  you  and  me  have 
had  along  of  Giles. 

DANIEL.     Giles  be  safe  enough  in  them  foreign  parts 


8  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  i 

where  I  did  send  him.  You've  no  need  to  trouble  your 
head  about  he,  Mother— unless  'tis  a  letter  as  he  may 
have  got  sending  to  Mill. 

ELIZABETH.  No,  Father,  Giles  has  never  sent  a  letter 
since  the  day  he  left  home.  But  very  often  there  is  no 
need  for  letters  to  keep  remembrance  green.  'Tis  a 
plant  what  thrives  best  on  a  soil  that  is  bare. 

DANIEL.  Well,  Mother,  and  what  be  you  a-driving 
at  ?  I  warrant  as  Mill  have  got  over  them  notions  as 
she  did  have  once.  And,  look  you  here,  'twas  with 
young  Andrew  as  I  did  journey  back  from  the  Fair. 
And  he  be  a-coming  up  presently  for  to  get  his  answer. 

ELIZABETH.  All  I  say  is  that  I  hope  he  may  get  it 
then. 

DANIEL.  Ah,  I  reckon  as  'tis  rare  put  about  as  he 
have  been  all  this  long  while,  and  never  a  downright 
"  yes  "  to  what  he  do  ask. 

[MAY  comes  softly  in  and  hides  behind  the  door. 

ELIZABETH.    Well,  that's  not  my  fault,  Father. 

DANIEL.  But  her'll  have  to  change  her  note  this  day, 
thather'll  have.  For  I've  "spoke  for  she,  and  'tis  for  next 
month  as  I've  pitched  the  wedding  day. 

ELIZABETH.  And  you  may  pitch,  Father.  You  may 
lead  the  mare  down  to  the  pond,  but  she'll  not  drink  if 
she  hasn't  the  mind  to.  You  know  what  Millie  is. 
'Tisn't  from  my  side  that  she  gets  it  either. 

DANIEL.  And  'tain't  from  me.  I  be  all  for  easy 
going  and  each  one  to  his  self  like. 

ELIZABETH.    Yes,  there  you  are,  Father. 

DANIEL.  But  I  reckon  as  the  little  maid  will  hearken 
to  what  I  says.  Her  was  always  a  wonderful  good  little 
maid  to  her  dad.  And  her  did  always  know,  that  when 
her  dad  did  set  his  foot  down,  well,  there  'twas.  'Twas 
down. 

ELIZABETH.  Well,  if  you  think  you  can  shew  her  that, 
Father,  'tis  a  fortunate  job  on  all  sides. 

[They  suddenly  see  MAY  who  has  been  quiet 
behind  the  door. 

ELIZABETH.    May,  what  are  you  a-doing  here  I  should 


ACT  i  THE   LOVERS'    TASKS  9 

like  to  know  ?     Didn't  I  send  you  out  into  the  garden 
along  of  your  sister  ? 

MAY.    Yes,  Auntie,  but  I've  corned  back. 

ELIZABETH.  Then  you  can  be  off  again,  and  shut  the 
door  this  time,  do  your  hear  ? 

DANIEL.  That's  it,  my  little  maid.  Run  along — 
and  look  you,  May,  just  you  tell  Cousin  Millie  as  we 
wants  her  in  here  straight  away.  And  who  knows  bye 
and  bye  whether  there  won't  be  sommat  in  yon  great 
parcel  for  a  good  little  wench. 

MAY.     O  Uncle — I'd  like  to  see  it  now. 

DANIEL.  Nay,  nay— this  is  not  a  suitable  time — 
Aunt  and  me  has  business  what's  got  to  be  settled  like. 
Nay — 'tis  later  on  as  the  packets  is  to  be  opened. 

ELIZABETH.  Get  along  off,  you  tiresome  child. — One 
word  might  do  for  some,  but  it  takes  twenty  to  get  you 
to  move. — Run  along  now,  do  you  hear  me  ? 

[MAY  goes. 

Well,  Father,  I've  done  my  share  with  Millie  and  she 
don't  take  a  bit  of  notice  of  what  I  say.  So  now  it's 
your  turn. 

DANIEL.  Ah,  I  count  'tis  more  man's  work,  this  here, 
so  'tis.  There  be  things  which  belongs  to  females  and 
there  be  others  which  do  not.  You  get  and  leave  it  all 
to  me.  I'll  bring  it  off. 

ELIZABETH.     All  right,  Father,  just  you  try  your  way 
— I'll  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  it. 
[MILLIE  comes  in.] 

MILLIE.  Why,  Father,  you're  back  early  from  the 
Fair. 

DANIEL.  That's  so,  my  wench.  See  that  package 
over  yonder  ? 

MILLIE.     0,  that  I  do,  Father. 

DANIEL.     Yon  great  one's  for  you,  Mill. 

MILLIE.     0  Father,  what's  inside  it  ? 

DANIEL.     'Tis  a  new,  smart  bonnet,  my  wench. 

MILLIE.    For  me,  Father  ? 

DANIEL.    Ah — who  else  should  it  be  for,  Mill  ? 

MILLIE.     O  Father,  you  are  good  to  me. 


10  THE    LOVERS'   TASKS  ACT  i 

DANIEL.    And  a  silk  cloak  as  well. 

MILLIE.  A  silken  cloak,  and  a  bonnet — O  Father, 
'tis  too  much  for  you  to  give  me  all  at  once,  like. 

DANIEL.  Young  Andrew  did  help  me  with  the 
choice,  and  'tis  all  to  be  worn  on  this  day  month,  my 
girl. 

MILLIE.    Why,  Father,  what's  to  happen  then  ? 

DANIEL.     'Tis  for  you  to  go  along  to  church  in,  Mill. 

MILLIE.    To  church,  Father  ? 

DANIEL.  Ah,  that  'tis — you  in  the  cloak  and  bonnet, 
and  upon  the  arm  of  young  Andrew,  my  wench. 

MILLIE.     O  no,  Father. 

DANIEL.  But  'tis  "yes"  as  you  have  got  to  learn, 
my  wench.  And  quickly  too.  For  'tis  this  very 
evening  as  Andrew  be  coming  for  his  answer.  And 
'tis  to  be  "yes"  this  time. 

MILLIE.     O  no,  Father. 

DANIEL.  You've  an  hour  before  you,  my  wench,  in 
which  to  get  another  word  to  your  tongue. 

MILLIE.  I  can't  learn  any  word  that  isn't  "no," 
Father. 

DANIEL.  Look  at  me,  my  wench.  My  foot  be  down. 
I  means  what  I  says — 

MILLIE.  And  I  mean  what  I  say,  too,  Father.  And 
I  say,  No ! 

DANIEL.    Millie,  I've  set  down  my  foot. 

MILLIE.    And  so  have  I,  Father. 

DANIEL.  And  'tis  "  yes  "  as  you  must  say  to  young 
Andrew  when  he  do  come  a-courting  of  you  this  night. 

MILLIE.  That  I'll  never  say,  Father.  I  don't  want 
cloaks  nor  bonnets,  nor  my  heart  moved  by  gifts,  or 
tears  brought  to  my  eyes  by  fair  words.  I'll  not  wed 
unless  I  can  give  my  love  along  with  my  hand.  And 
'tis  not  to  Andrew  I  can  give  that,  as  you  know. 

DANIEL.  And  to  whom  should  a  maid  give  her  heart 
if  'twasn't  to  Andrew  ?  A  finer  lad  never  trod  in  a  pair 
of  shoes.  I'll  be  blest  if  I  do  know  what  the  wenches 
be  a-coming  to. 

ELIZABETH.    There.  Father,  I  told  you  what  to  expect. 


ACT  i  THE   LOVERS'   TASKS  11 

DANIEL.  But  'tis  master  as  I'll  be,  hark  you,  Mother, 
hark  you,  Mill.  And  'tis  "  Yes  "  as  you  have  got  to  fit 
your  tongue  out  with  my  girl,  afore  'tis  dark.  [Rising.] 
I  be  a'going  off  to  the  yard,  but,  Mother,  her'll  know 
what  to  say  to  you,  her  will. 

MILLIE.  Dad,  do  you  stop  and  shew  me  the  inside 
of  my  packet.  Let  us  put  Andrew  aside  and  be  happy 
—do! 

DANIEL.  Ah,  I've  got  other  things  as  is  waiting  to 
be  done  nor  breaking  in  a  tricksome  filly  to  run  atween 
the  shafts.  'Tis  fitter  work  for  females,  and  so  'tis. 

ELIZABETH.    And  so  I  told  you.  Father,  from  the  start. 

MILLIE.     And  'tis  "No"  that  I  shall  say. 

[Curtain.] 


ACT  I.— Scene  2, 

It  is  dusk  on  the  same  evening. 

MILLIE  is  standing  by  the  table  folding  up  the  silken 
cloak.  ANNET  sits  watching  her,  on  her  knees  lies  a 
open  parcel  disclosing  a  woollen  shawl.  In  a  far 
corner  of  the  room  MAY  is  seated  on  a  stool  making 
a  daisy  chain. 

ANNET.  'Twas  very  good  of  Uncle  to  bring  me  this 
nice  shawl,  Millie. 

MILLIE.  You  should  have  had  a  cloak  like  mine, 
Annet,  by  rights. 

ANNET.     I'm  not  going  to  get  married,  Millie. 

MILLIE.  [Sitting  down  with  a  sudden  movement  of 
despondence  and  stretching  her  arms  across  the  table.]  O 
don't  you  speak  to  me  of  that,  Annet.  'Tis  more  than 
I  can  bear  to-night. 

ANNET.  But,  Millie,  he's  coming  for  your  answer 
now.  You  musn't  let  him  find  you  looking  so. 


12  THE   LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  i 

MILLIE.  My  face  shall  look  as  my  heart  feels.  And 
that  is  all  sorrow,  Annet. 

ANNET.  Can't  you  bring  yourself  round  to  fancy 
Andrew,  Millie  ? 

MILLIE.  No,  that  I  cannot,  Annet,  I've  tried  a  score 
of  times,  I  have — but  there  it  is — I  cannot. 

ANNET.    Is  it  that  you've  not  forgotten  Giles,  then  ? 

MILLIE.  I  never  shall  forget  him,  Annet.  Why,  'tis 
a  five  year  this  day  since  father  sent  him  off  to  foreign 
parts,  and  never  a  moment  of  all  that  time  has  my  heart 
not  remembered  him. 

ANNET.     I  feared  'twas  so  with  you,  Millie. 

MILLIE.  0  I've  laid  awake  of  nights  and  my  tears 
have  wetted  the  pillow  all  over  so  that  I've  had  to  turn 
it  t'other  side  up. 

ANNET.  And  Giles  has  never  written  to  you,  nor 
sent  a  sign  nor  nothing  ? 

MILLIE  .  Your  brother  Giles  was  never  very  grand  with 
the  pen,  Annet.  But,  0,  he's  none  the  worse  for  that. 

ANNET.  Millie,  I  never  cared  for  to  question  you,  but 
how  was  it  when  you  and  he  did  part,  one  with  t'other  ? 

MILLIE.  I  did  give  him  my  ring,  Annet — secret  like 
— when  we  were  walking  in  the  wood. 

ANNET.    What,  the  one  with  the  white  stones  to  it  ? 

MILLIE.  Yes,  grandmother's  ring,  that  she  left  me. 
And  I  did  say  to  him — if  ever  I  do  turn  false  to  you 
and  am  like  to  wed  another,  Giles — look  you  at  these 
white  stones. 

ANNET.    Seven  of  them,  there  were,  Millie. 

MILLIE.  And  the  day  that  I  am  like  to  wed  another, 
Giles,  I  said  to  him,  the  stones  shall  darken.  But  you'll 
never  see  that  day.  [She  begins  to  cry. 

ANNET.  Don't  you  give  way,  Millie,  for,  look  you, 
'tis  very  likely  that  Giles  has  forgotten  you  for  all  his 
fine  words,  and  Andrew, — well,  Andrew  he's  as  grand  a 
suitor  as  ever  maid  had.  And  'tis  Andrew  you  have 
got  to  wed,  you  know. 

MILLIE.  Andrew,  Andrew — I'm  sick  at  the  very 
name  of  him. 


ACT  i  THE   LOVERS'   TASKS  13 

ANNET.  See  the  fine  house  you'll  live  in.  Think  on 
the  grand  parlour  that  you'll  sit  in  all  the  day  with 
a  servant  to  wait  on  you  and  naught  but  Sunday  clothes 
on  your  back. 

MILLIE.  I'd  sooner  go  in  rags  with  Giles  at  the  side 
of  me. 

ANNET.  Come,  you  must  hearten  up.  Andrew  will 
soon  be  here.  And  Uncle  says  that  you  have  got  to 
give  him  his  answer  to-night  for  good  and  all. 

MILLIE.  0  I  cannot  see  him — I'm  wearied  to  death 
of  Andrew,  and  that's  the  very  truth  it  is. 

ANNET.  0  Millie — I  wonder  how  'twould  feel  to  be 
you  for  half-an-hour  and  to  have  such  a  fine  suitor 
coming  to  me  and  asking  for  me  to  say  Yes. 

MILLIE.  0  I  wish  'twas  you  and  not  me  that  he  was 
after,  Annet. 

ANNET.  'Tisn't  likely  that  anyone  such  as  Master 
Andrew  will  ever  come  courting  a  poor  girl  like  me, 
Millie.  But  I'd  dearly  love  to  know  how  'twould  feel. 

[MILLIE  raises  her  head  and  looks  at  her  cousin 
for  a  few  minutes  in  silence,  then  her  face 
brightens. 

MILLIE.     Then  you  shall,  Annet. 

ANNET.    Shall  what,  Mill  ? 

MILLIE.  Know  how  it  feels.  Look  here — 'Tis  sick 
to  death  I  am  with  courting,  when  'tis  from  the  wrong 
quarter,  and  if  I'm  to  wed  Andrew  come  next  month, 
I'll  not  be  tormented  with  him  before  that  time, — 
so  'tis  you  that  shall  stop  and  talk  with  him  this 
evening,  Annet,  and  I'll  slip  out  to  the  woods  and  gather 
flowers. 

ANNET.     How  wild  and  unlikely  you  do  talk,  Mill. 

MILLIE.  In  the  dusk  he'll  never  know  that  'tisn't 
me.  Being  cousins,  we  speak  after  the  same  fashion, 
and  in  the  shape  of  us  there's  not  much  that's  amiss. 

ANNET.  But  in  the  clothing  of  us,  Mill — why,  'tis  a 
grand  young  lady  that  you  look — whilst  I 

MILLIE.  [Taking  up  the  silken  cloak.]  Here — put 
this  over  your  gown,  Annet. 


14  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  i 

ANNET.  [Standing  up.]  I  don't  mind  just  trying 
it  on,  like. 

MILLIE.  [Fastening  it.]  There — and  now  the  bonnet, 
with  the  veil  pulled  over  the  face. 

[She  ties  the  bonnet  and  arranges  the  veil  on 
ANNET. 

MILLIE.  [Standing  back  and  surveying  her  cousin.] 
There,  Annet,  there  May,  who  is  to  tell  which  of  us  'tis  ? 

MAY.  [Coming  forward.]  O  I  should  never  know 
that  'twasn't  you,  Cousin  Mill. 

MILLIE.  And  I  could  well  mistake  her  for  myself 
too,  so  listen,  Annet.  'Tis  you  that  shall  talk  with 
Master  Andrew  when  he  comes  to-night.  And  'tis  you 
that  shall  give  him  my  answer.  I'll  not  burn  my  lips 
by  speaking  the  word  he  asks  of  me. 

ANNET.     0  Mill — I  cannot — no  I  cannot. 

MILLIE.  Don't  let  him  have  it  very  easily,  Annet. 
Set  him  a  ditch  or  two  to  jump  before  he  gets  there. 
And  let  the  thorns  prick  him  a  bit  before  he  gathers  the 
flower.  You  know  my  way  with  him. 

MAY.  And  I  know  it  too,  Millie — Why,  your  tongue, 
'tis  very  near  as  sharp  as  when  Aunt  do  speak. 

ANNET.  0  Millie,  take  off  these  things — I  cannot  do 
it,  that's  the  truth. 

MAY.  [Looking  out  through  the  door.]  There's  Andrew 
a-coming  over  the  mill  yard. 

MILLIE.  Here,  sit  down,  Annet,  with  the  back  of 
you  to  the  light. 

[She  pushes  ANNET  into  a  chair  beneath  the 
window. 

MAY.  Can  I  get  into  the  cupboard  and  listen  to  it, 
Cousin  Mill  ? 

MILLIE.  If  you  promise  to  bide  quiet  and  to  say 
naught  of  it  afterwards. 

MAY.  0  I  promise,  I  promise — I'll  just  leave  a  crack 
of  the  door  open  for  to  hear  well. 

[MAY  gets  into  the  cupboard.  MILLIE  takes  up 
ANNET 's  new  shawl  and  puts  it  all  over 
her. 


ACT  I  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  15 

MILLIE.  No  one  will  think  that  'tisn't  you,  in  the 
dusk. 

ANNET.     0  Millie,  what  is  it  that  you've  got  me  to  do  ? 
MILLIE.     Never  you  mind,  Annet — you  shall  see  what 
'tis  to  have  a  grand  suitor  and  I  shall  get  a  little  while 
of  quiet  out  yonder,  where  I  can  think  on  Giles. 

[She  runs  out  of  the  door  just  as  ANDREW  comes 
up.  ANDREW  knocks  and  then  enters  the 
open  door. 

ANDREW.     Where's  Annet  off  to  in  such  a  hurry  ? 
ANNET.     [Very  faintly.]    I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 

[ANDREW  lays  aside  his  hat  and  comes  up  to 
the  window.  He  stands  before  ANNET  look- 
ing down  on  her.  She  becomes  restless 
under  his  gaze,  and  at  last  signs  to  him  to 
sit  down. 

ANDREW.  [Sitting  down  on  a  chair  a  little  way  from 
her.]  The  Master  said  that  I  might  come  along  to-night, 
Millie — Otherwise —  [ANNET  is  still  silent. 

Otherwise  I  shouldn't  have  dared  do  so. 

[ANNET  sits  nervously  twisting  the  ribbons  of 

her  cloak. 

The  Master  said,  as  how  may  be,  your  feeling  for  me, 
Millie,  might  be  changed  like.          [ANNET  is  still  silent. 
And  that  if  I  was  to  ask  you  once  more,  very  likely 
'twould  be  something  different  as  you  might  say. 

[A  long  silence. 

Was  I  wrong  in  coming,  Millie  ? 

ANNET.  [Faintly.]  'Twould  have  been  better  had 
you  stayed  away  like. 

ANDREW.  Then  there  isn't  any  change  in  your  feel- 
ings towards  me,  Millie  ? 

ANNET.     0,  there's  a  sort  of  a  change,  Andrew. 
ANDREW.     [Slowly.]     0    Mill,    that's    good    hearing. 
What  sort  of  a  change  is  it  then  ? 

ANNET.     'Tis  very  hard  to  say,  Andrew. 
ANDREW.     Look  you,  Mill,  'tis  more  than  a  five  year 
that  I've  been  a-courting  of  you  faithful. 
ANNET.     [Sighing.]    Indeed  it  is,  Andrew. 


16  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  i 

ANDREW.  And  I've  never  got  naught  but  blows  for 
my  pains. 

ANNET.  [Beginning  to  speak  in  a  gentle  voice  and 
ending  sharply.]  0  I'm  so  sorry — No — I  mean — 'Tis 
your  own  fault,  Andrew. 

ANDREW.  But  I  would  sooner  take  blows  from  you 
than  sweet,  words  from  another,  Millie. 

ANNET.  I  could  never  find  it  in  my  heart  to — I  mean, 
'tis  as  well  that  you  should  get  used  to  blows,  seeing 
we're  to  be  wed,  Andrew. 

ANDREW.  Then  'tis  to  be  !  0  Millie,  this  is  brave 
news — Why,  I  do  scarcely  know  whether  I  be  awake  or 
dreaming. 

ANNET.  [Very  sadly.]  Very  likely  you'll  be  glad 
enough  to  be  dreaming  a  month  from  now,  poor  Andrew. 

ANDREW.  [Drawing  nearer.]  I  am  brave,  Millie, 
now  that  you  speak  to  me  so  kind  and  gentle,  and  I'll 
ask  you  to  name  the  day. 

ANNET.  [Shrinking  back.]  O  'twill  be  a  very  long 
distance  from  now,  Andrew. 

ANDREW.  Millie,  it  seems  to  be  your  pleasure  to  take 
up  my  heart  and  play  with  it  same  as  a  cat  does  with 
the  mouse. 

ANNET.  [Becoming  gay  and  hard  in  her  manner.] 
Your  heart,  Andrew  ?  'Twill  go  all  the  better  after- 
wards if  'tis  tossed  about  a  bit  first. 

ANDREW.  Put  an  end  to  this  foolishness,  Mill,  and 
say  when  you'll  wed  me. 

ANNET.  [Warding  him  off  with  her  hand.]  You  shall 
have  my  answer  in  a  new  song  Andrew,  which  I  have 
been  learning. 

[ANDREW  sits  down  despondently  and  prepares 
to  listen. 

ANNET.  Now  hark  you  to  this,  Andrew,  and  turn  it 
well  over  in  your  mind.  [She  begins  to  sing  : 

Say  can  you  plough  me  an  acre  of  land 
Sing  Ivy  leaf,  Sweet  William  and  Thyme. 
Between  the  sea  and  the  salt  sea  strand 
And  you  shall  be  a  true  lover  of  mine  ? 


ACT  i  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  17 

[A  slight  pause.     ANNET  looks  questioningly  at 
ANDREW,  who  turns  away  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
ANNET.     [Singing.'] 

Yes,  if  you  plough  it  with  one  ram's  horn 
Sing  Ivy  Leaf,  Sweet  William  and  Thyme 
And  sow  it  all  over  with  one  peppercorn 
And  you  shall  be  a  true  lover  of  mine. 
ANDREW.     'Tis  all  foolishness. 
ANNET.     [Singing.] 

Say  can  you  reap  with  a  sickle  of  leather 
Sing  Ivy  Leaf,  Sweet  William  and  Thyme 
And  tie  it  all  up  with  a  Tom-tit's  feather 
And  you  shall  be  a  true  lover  of  mine. 
ANDREW.     [Rises  up  impatiently.]     I  can  stand  no 
more.     You've  danced  upon  my  heart  till   'tis  fairly 
brittle,  and  ready  to  be  broke  by  a  feather. 

ANNET.  [Very  gently.]  0  Andrew,  I'll  mend  your 
heart  one  day. 

ANDREW.  Millie,  the  sound  of  those  words  has 
mended  it  already. 

ANNET.  [In  a  harder  voice.]  But  very  likely  there'll 
be  a  crack  left  to  it  always. 

[FARMER  DANIEL  and   ELIZABETH   come  into 

the  room. 

DANIEL.    Well  my  boy,  well  Millie  ? 
ANDREW.     [Boldly.]     'Tis  for  a  month  from  now. 
DANIEL.     Bless  my  soul.     Hear  that,  Mother  ?     Hear 
that? 

ELIZABETH.     I'm  not  deaf,  Father. 
DANIEL.     [Shaking  ANDREW'S  hand.]    Ah  my  boy, 
I  knowed  as  you'd  bring  the  little  maid  to  the  senses 
of  she. 

ELIZABETH.  Millie  has  not  shown  any  backwardness 
in  clothing  herself  as  though  for  church. 

DANIEL.  'Tis  with  the  maids  as  'tis  with  the  fowls 
when  they  be  come  out  from  moult.  They  be  bound  to 
pick  about  this  way  and  that  in  their  new  feathers. 

ELIZABETH.  Well,  'tis  to  be  hoped  the  young  people 
have  fixed  it  up  for  good  and  all  this  time. 


18  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  i 

DANIEL.  Come  Mill,  my  wench,  you  be  wonderful 
quiet.  Where's  your  tongue  ? 

ELIZABETH.  I  think  we've  all  had  quite  enough  of 
Millie's  tongue,  Father.  Let  her  give  it  a  rest  if  she've 
a  mind. 

DANIEL.  I  warrant  she  be  gone  as  shy  as  a  May 
bettel  when  'tis  daylight.  But  us'll  take  it  as  she  have 
fixed  it  up  in  her  own  mind  like.  Come,  Mother,  such 
a  time  as  this,  you  won't  take  no  objection  to  the  draw- 
ing of  a  jug  of  cider. 

ELIZABETH.  And  supper  just  about  to  be  served  ? 
I'm  surprised  at  you,  Father.  No,  I  can't  hear  of  cider 
being  drawn  so  needless  like. 

DANIEL.  Well,  well, — have  it  your  own  way — but 
I  always  says,  and  my  father  used  to  say  it  afore  I,  a  fine 
deed  do  call  for  a  fine  drink,  and  that's  how  'twas  in 
my  time. 

ELIZABETH.  Millie,  do  you  call  your  cousins  in  to 
supper. 

DANIEL.  Ah,  and  where  be  the  maids  gone  off  to 
this  time  of  night,  Mother  ? 

ANDREW.     Annet  did  pass  me  as  I  came  through  the 

yard,  Master 

[MAY,  quietly  opens  the  cupboard  door  and  comes 
out. 

ELIZABETH.  So  that's  where  you've  been,  you  deceit- 
ful little  wench. 

ANDREW.    Well,  to  think  of  that,  Millie. 

ELIZABETH.  And  how  long  may  you  have  bid  there, 
I  should  like  to  know  ? 

DANIEL.  Come,  come,  my  little  maid,  'tis  early  days 
for  you  to  be  getting  a  lesson  in  courtship. 

MAY.  O  there  wasn't  any  courtship,  Uncle,  and  I 
didn't  hear  nothing  at  all  to  speak  of. 

ELIZABETH.  There,  run  along  quick  and  find  your 
sister.  Supper's  late  already,  and  that  it  is. 

ANNET.    I'll  go  with  her. 

[She  starts  forward  and  hurriedly  moves  towards 
the  door. 


ACT  i  THE   LOVERS'    TASKS  19 

ELIZABETH.  Stop  a  moment,  Millie.  What  are  you 
thinking  of  to  go  trailing  out  in  the  dew  with  that  beauti- 
ful cloak  and  bonnet.  Take  and  lay  them  in  the  box 
at  once,  do  you  hear  ? 

DANIEL.  That's  it,  Mill.  'Twouldn't  do  for  to  mess 
them  up  afore  the  day.  'Twas  a  fair  price  as  I  gived  for 
they,  and  that  I  can  tell  you,  my  girl. 

[ANNET    stops    irresolutely.    MAY    seizes    her 
hand. 

MAY.  Come  off,  come  off,  "  Cousin  Millie  "  ;  'tis  not 
damp  outside,  and  O  I'm  afeared  to  cross  the  rickyard 
by  myself. 

[She  pulls  ANNET  violently   by  the    hand  and 
draws  her  out  of  the  door. 

ELIZABETH.     Off  with  the  cloak  this  minute,  Millie. 

MAY.  [Calling  back.]  She's  a-taking  of  it  off,  Aunt, 
she  is. 

ELIZABETH.  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  the  maid. 
She  don't  act  like  herself  to-day. 

DANIEL.  Ah,  that  be  asking  too  much  of  a  maid,  to 
act  like  herself,  and  the  wedding  day  close  ahead  of  she. 

ELIZABETH.  I'd  be  content  with  a  suitable  behaviour, 
Father.  I'm  not  hard  to  please. 

DANIEL.  Ah,  you  take  and  let  her  go  quiet,  same  as 
I  lets  th'  old  mare  when  her  first  comes  up  from  grass. 

ELIZABETH.  'Tis  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk,  Father 
but  'tis  I  who  have  got  to  do. 

DANIEL.  Come  Mother,  come  Andrew,  I  be  sharp 
set.  And  'tis  the  feel  of  victuals  and  no  words  as  I 
wants  in  my  mouth. 

ELIZABETH.  Well,  Father,  I'm  not  detaining  you. 
There's  the  door,  and  the  food  has  been  cooling  on  the 
table  this  great  while. 

DANIEL.  Come  you,  Andrew,  come  you,  Mother. 
Us'll  make  a  bit  of  a  marriage  feast  this  night. 

[He  leads  the  way  and  the  others  follow  him  out. 

[Curtain.] 


20  THE   LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  n 


ACT  II.— Scene  1. 

A  woodland  path.  GILES  comes  forward  with  his  two 
servants,  GEORGE  and  JOHN,  who  are  carrying  heavy 
packets. 

GILES.  'Tis  powerful  warm  to-day.  We  will  take 
a  bit  of  rest  before  we  go  further. 

GEORGE.  [Setting  down  his  packet.]  That's  it,  master, 
'Tis  a  rare  weight  as  I've  been  carrying  across  my  back 
since  dawn. 

JOHN.  [Also  setting  down  his  burden.]  Ah,  I  be 
pleased  for  to  lay  aside  yon.  'Tis  wonderful  heavy 
work,  this  journeying  to  and  fro  with  gold  and  silver. 

GILES.  Our  travelling  is  very  nigh  finished.  There 
lies  the  road  which  goes  to  Camel  Farm. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  I  count  as  that  must  be  a  rare  sort  of 
a  place,  master. 

JOHN.  Seeing  as  us  haven't  stopped  scarce  an  hour 
since  us  landed  off  the  sea. 

GEORGE.  But  have  come  running  all  the  while  same 
as  the  fox  may  run  in  th'  early  morning  towards  the 
poultry  yard. 

JOHN.  Nor  broke  bread,  nor  scarce  got  a  drop  of 
drink  to  wet  th'  insides  of  we. 

GILES.  'Tis  very  little  further  that  you  have  got 
to  journey,  my  good  lads.  We  are  nigh  to  the  end 
of  our  wayfaring. 

GEORGE.  And  what  sort  of  a  place  be  we  a-coming 
to,  master  ? 

GILES.     'Tis  the  place  out  of  all  the  world  to  me. 

JOHN.  I  count  'tis  sommat  rare  and  fine  in  that 
case,  seeing  as  we  be  come  from  brave  foreign  parts, 
master. 

GILES.  'Tis  rarer,  and  finer  than  all  the  foreign 
lands  that  lie  beneath  the  sun,  my  lads. 

GEORGE.  That's  good  hearing,  master.  And  is  the 
victuals  like  to  be  as  fine  as  the  place  ? 


ACT  ii  THE   LOVERS'    TASKS  21 

GILES.     0,  you'll  fare  well  enough  yonder. 

JOHN.  I  was  never  one  for  foreign  victuals,  nor  for 
the  drink  that  was  over  there  neither. 

GILES.  Well,  the  both  of  you  shall  rest  this  night 
beneath  the  grandest  roof  that  ever  sheltered  a  man's 
head.  And  you  shall  sit  at  a  table  spread  as  you've  not 
seen  this  many  a  year. 

GEORGE.  That'll  be  sommat  to  think  on,  master, 
when  us  gets  upon  our  legs  again. 

JOHN.  I  be  thinking  of  it  ahead  as  I  lies  here,  and 
that's  the  truth. 

[The  two  servants  stretch  themselves  comfortably 
beneath  the  trees.  GILES  walks  restlessly 
backwards  and  forwards  as  though  im- 
patient at  any  delay.  From  time  to  time 
he  glances  at  a  ring  which  he  wears, 
sighing  heavily  as  he  does  so. 
[An  old  man  comes  up,  leaning  on  his  staff. 

OLD  MAN.     Good-morning  to  you,  my  fine  gentlemen. 

GILES.     Good-morning,  master. 

OLD  MAN.     'Tis  a  wonderful  warm  sun  to-day. 

GILES.     You're  right  there,  master. 

OLD  MAN.  I  warrant  as  you  be  journeying  towards 
the  same  place  where  I  be  going,  my  lord. 

GILES.     And  where  is  that,  old  master  ? 

OLD  MAN.     Towards  Camel  Farm. 

GILES.  You're  right.  'Tis  there  and  nowhere  else 
that  we  are  going. 

OLD  MAN.  Ah,  us'll  have  to  go  smartish  if  us  is  to 
be  there  in  time. 

GILES.     In  time  for  what,  my  good  man  ? 

OLD  MAN.     In  time  for  to  see  the  marrying,  my  lord. 

GILES.  The  marrying  ?  What's  that  you're  telling 
me? 

OLD  MAN.     'Tis  at  noon  this  day  that  she's  to  be  wed. 

GILES.    Who  are  you  speaking  of,  old  man  ? 

OLD  MAN.  And  where  is  your  lordship  journeying 
this  day  if  'tis  not  to  the  marrying  ? 

GILES.    Who's  getting  wed  up  yonder,  tell  me  quickly  ? 


22  THE   LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  n 

OLD  MAN.  'Tis  th'  old  farmer's  daughter  what's 
to  wed  come  noon-tide. 

GILES.  [Starting.]  Millie  !  O  that  is  heavy  news. 
[Looking  at  his  hand.]  Then  'tis  as  I  feared,  for  since 
daybreak  yesterday  the  brightness  has  all  gone  from 
out  of  the  seven  stones.  That's  how  'twould  be,  she 
told  me  once. 

[He  turns  away  from  the  others  in  deep  distress  of 
mind. 

GEORGE.     Us'll  see  no  Camel  Farm  this  day. 

JOHN.     And  th'  inside  of  I  be  crying  out  for  victuals. 

OLD  MAN.     Then  you  be  not  of  these  parts,  masters  ? 

GEORGE.  No,  us  be  corned  from  right  over  the  seas, 
along  of  master. 

JOHN.  Ah,  'tis  a  fine  gentleman,  master.  But 
powerful  misfortunate  in  things  of  the  heart. 

GEORGE.  Ah,  he'd  best  have  stopped  where  he  was. 
Camel  Farm  baint  no  place  for  the  like  of  he  to  go 
courting  at. 

JOHN.  Ah,  master  be  used  to  them  great  palaces, 
all  over  gold  and  marble  with  windows  as  you  might 
drive  a  waggon  through,  and  that  you  might. 

GEORGE.  All  painted  glass.  And  each  chair  with 
golden  legs  to  him,  and  a  sight  of  silver  vessels  on  the 
table  as  never  you  did  dream  of  after  a  night's  drinking, 
old  man.  [GILES  comes  slowly  towards  them. 

GILES.     And  who  is  she  to  wed,  old  man  ? 

OLD  MAN.  Be  you  a-speaking  of  the  young  mistress 
up  at  Camel  Farm,  my  lord  ? 

GILES.  Yes.  With  whom  does  she  go  to  church 
to-day  ? 

OLD  MAN.  'Tis  along  of  Master  Andrew  that  her 
do  go.  What  lives  up  Cranham  way. 

GILES.  Ah,  th'old  farmer  was  always  wonderful 
set  on  him.  [A  pause. 

OLD  MAN.  I  be  a  poor  old  wretch  what  journeys 
upon  the  roads,  master,  and  maybe  I  picks  a  crust  here 
and  gets  a  drink  of  water  there,  and  the  shelter  of  the 
pig-stye  wall  to  rest  the  bones  of  me  at  night  time. 


ACT  ii  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  23 

GILES.  What  matters  it  if  you  be  old  and  poor, 
master,  so  that  the  heart  of  you  be  whole  and  unbroken  ? 

OLD  MAN.  Us  poor  old  wretches  don't  carry  no  hearts 
to  th'  insides  of  we.  The  pains  of  us  do  come  from  the 
having  of  no  victuals  and  from  the  winter's  cold  when 
snow  do  lie  on  the  ground  and  the  wind  do  moan  over 
the  fields,  and  when  the  fox  do  bark. 

GILES.  What  is  the  pang  of  hunger  and  the  cold 
bite  of  winter  set  against  the  cruel  torment  of  a  dis- 
appointed love  ? 

OLD  MAN.  I  baint  one  as  can  judge  of  that,  my 
lord,  seeing  that  I  be  got  a  poor  old  badger  of  a  man, 
and  the  days  when  I  was  young  and  did  carry  a  heart 
what  could  beat  with  love,  be  ahind  of  I,  and  the  feel 
of  them  clean  forgot. 

GILES.  Then  what  do  you  up  yonder  at  the  marrying 
this  morning  ? 

OLD  MAN.  Oh,  I  do  take  me  to  those  places  where 
there  be  burying  or  marriage,  for  the  hearts  of  folk  at 
these  seasons  be  warmed  and  kinder,  like.  And  'tis 
bread  and  meat  as  I  gets  then.  Food  be  thrown  out 
to  the  poor  old  dog  what  waits  patient  at  the  door. 

GILES.  [Looks  intently  at  him  for  a  moment.]  See 
here,  old  master.  I  would  fain  strike  a  bargain  with 
you.  And  'tis  with  a  handful  of  golden  pieces  that  I 
will  pay  your  service. 

OLD  MAN.     Anything  to  oblige  you,  my  young  lord. 

GILES.  [To  GEORGE.]  Take  out  a  handful  from  the 
bag  of  gold.  And  you,  John,  give  him  some  of  the 
silver. 

[GEOKGE  and  JOHN  untie  their  bags  and  take 
out  gold  and  silver.  They  twist  it  up  in 
a  handkerchief  which  they  give  to  the  old 
man.] 

OLD  MAN.  May  all  the  blessings  of  heaven  rest  on 
you,  my  lord,  for  'tis  plain  to  see  that  you  be  one  of  the 
greatest  and  finest  gentlemen  ever  born  to  the  land. 

GILES.  My  good  friend,  you're  wrong  there,  I  was 
a  poor  country  lad,  but  I  had  the  greatest  treasure 


24  THE   LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  n 

that  a  man  could  hold  on  this  earth.  'Twas  the  love 
of  my  cousin  Millie.  And  being  poor,  I  was  put  from 
out  the  home,  and  sent  to  seek  my  fortune  in  parts  beyond 
the  sea. 

OLD  MAN.  Now,  who'd  have  thought  'twas  so,  for 
the  looks  of  you  be  gentle  born  all  over. 

GILES.  "  Come  back  with  a  bushel  of  gold  in  one 
hand  and  one  of  silver  in  t'other  "  the  old  farmer 
said  to  me,  "  and  then  maybe  I'll  let  you  wed  my 
daughter." 

OLD  MAN.  And  here  you  be  corned  back,  and  there 
lie  the  gold  and  the  silver  bags. 

GILES.  And  yonder  is  Millie  given  in  marriage  to 
another. 

GEORGE.     'Taint  done  yet,  master. 

JOHN.     'Tisn't  too  late,  by  a  long  way,  master. 

GILES.  [To  OLD  MAN.]  And  so  I  would  crave  some- 
thing of  you,  old  friend.  Lend  me  your  smock,  and 
your  big  hat  and  your  staff.  In  that  disguise  I  will  go 
to  the  farm  and  look  upon  my  poor  false  love  once 
more.  If  I  find  that  her  heart  is  already  given  to 
another,  I  shall  not  make  myself  known  to  her.  But 
if  she  still  holds  to  her  love  for  me,  then — 

GEORGE.  Go  in  the  fine  clothes  what  you  have  upon 
you,  master.  And  even  should  the  maid's  heart,  be  given 
to  another,  the  sight  of  so  grand  a  cloth  and  such  laces 
will  soon  turn  it  the  right  way  again. 

JOHN.  Ah,  that's  so,  it  is.  You  go  as  you  be  clothed 
now,  master.  I  know  what  maids  be,  and  'tis  finery  and 
good  coats  which  do  work  more  on  the  hearts  of  they 
nor  anything  else  in  the  wide  world. 

GILES.  No,  no,  my  lads.  I  will  return  as  I  did  go 
from  yonder.  Poor,  and  in  mean  clothing.  Nor  shall 
a  glint  of  all  my  wealth  speak  one  word  for  me.  But 
if  so  be  as  her  heart  is  true  in  spite  of  everything, 
my  sorrowful  garments  will  not  hide  my  love  away  from 
her. 

OLD  MAN.  [Taking  off  his  hat.]  Here  you  are 
master. 


ACT  n  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  25 

[GILES  hands  his  own  hat  to  GEORGE.  He  then 
takes  off  his  coat  and  gives  it  to  JOHN.  The 
OLD  MAN  takes  off  his  smock,  GILES  puts  it  on. 

OLD  MAN.  Pull  the  hat  well  down  about  the  face 
of  you,  master,  so  as  the  smooth  skin  of  you  be  hid. 

GILES.  [Turning  round  in  his  disguise.]  How's 
that,  my  friends  ? 

GEORGE.  You  be  a  sight  too  straight  in  the  back, 
master. 

GILES.     [Stooping.]    I'll  soon  better  that. 

JOHN.  Be  you  a-going  in  them  fine  buckled  shoes, 
master  ? 

GILES.  I  had  forgot  the  shoes.  When  I  get  near  to 
the  house  'tis  barefoot  that  I  will  go. 

GEORGE.  Then  let  us  be  off,  master,  for  the  time  be 
running  short. 

JOHN.  Ah,  that  'tis.  I  count  it  be  close  on  noon-day 
now  by  the  look  of  the  sun. 

OLD  MAN.  And  heaven  be  with  you,  my  young 
gentleman. 

GILES.  My  good  friends,  you  shall  go  with  me  a  little 
further.  And  when  we  have  come  close  upon  the  farm, 
you  shall  stop  in  the  shelter  of  a  wood  that  I  know  of 
and  await  the  signal  I  shall  give  you. 

GEORGE.     And  what'll  that  be,  master  ? 

GILES.  I  shall  blow  three  times,  and  loudly  from 
my  whistle,  here. 

JOHN.  And  be  we  to  come  up  to  the  farm  when  we 
hears  you  ? 

GILES.  As  quickly  as  you  can  run.  'Twill  be  the 
sign  that  I  need  all  of  you  with  me. 

GEORGE  and  JOHN.  That's  it,  master.  Us  do  under- 
stand what  'tis  as  we  have  got  to  do. 

OLD  MAN.  Ah,  'tis  best  to  be  finished  with  hearts 
that  beat  to  the  tune  of  a  maid's  tongue,  and  to  creep 
quiet  along  the  roads  with  naught  but  them  pains  as 
hunger  and  thirst  do  bring  to  th'  inside.  So  'tis. 

[Curtain.] 


26  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  m 


ACT   III.— Scene    1. 

The  parlour  at  Camel  Farm.  ELIZABETH,  in  her  best 
dress,  is  moving  about  the  room  putting  chairs  in 
their  places  and  arranging  ornaments  on  the  dresser, 
etc.  MAY  stands  at  the  door  with  a  large  bunch  of 
flowers  in  her  hands. 

ELIZABETH.  And  what  do  you  want  to  run  about  in 
the  garden  for  when  I've  just  smoothed  your  hair  and 
got  you  all  ready  to  go  to  church? 

MAY.  I've  only  been  helping  Annet  gather  some 
flowers  to  put  upon  the  table. 

ELIZABETH.  You  should  know  better  then.  Didn't 
I  tell  you  to  sit  still  in  that  chair  with  your  hands  folded 
nicely  till  we  were  ready  to  start. 

MAY.  Why,  I  couldn't  be  sitting  there  all  the  while, 
now  could  I,  Aunt  ? 

ELIZABETH.  This'll  be  the  last  time  as  I  tie  your 
ribbon,  mind. 

[She  smoothes  MAY'S  hair  and  ties  it  up  for  her. 
ANNET  comes  into  the  room  with  more 
flowers. 

ELIZABETH.     What's  your  cousin  doing  now,  Annet  ? 

ANNET.  The  door  of  her  room  is  still  locked,  Aunt. 
And  what  she  says  is  that  she  do  want  to  bide  alone 
there 

ELIZABETH.  In  all  my  days  I  never  did  hear  tell  of 
such  a  thing,  I  don't  know  what's  coming  to  the  world, 
I  don't. 

MAY.  I  count  that  Millie  do  like  to  be  all  to  herself 
whilst  she  is  a-dressing  up  grand  in  her  white  gown, 
and  the  silken  cloak  and  bonnet. 

ANNET.  Millie's  not  a-dressing  of  herself  up.  I  heard 
her  crying  pitiful  as  I  was  gathering  flowers  in  the 
garden. 

ELIZABETH.     Crying  ?     She'll  have  something  to  cry 


ACT  in  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  27 

about  if  she  doesn't  look  out,  when  her  father  comes  in, 
and  hears  how  she's  a-going  on. 

MAY.  I  wonder  why  Cousin  Millie's  taking  on  like 
this.  I  shouldn't,  if  'twas  me  getting  married. 

ELIZABETH.  Look  you,  May,  you  get  and  run  up,  and 
knock  at  the  door  and  tell  her  that  'twill  soon  be  time 
for  us  to  set  off  to  church  and  that  she  have  got  to 
make  haste  in  her  dressing. 

MAY.  I'll  run,  Aunt,  only  'tis  very  likely  as  she'll 
not  listen  to  anything  that  I  say.  [MAY  goes  out. 

ELIZABETH.  Now  Annet,  no  idling  here,  if  you  please. 
Set  the  nosegay  in  water,  and  when  you've  given  a  look 
round  to  see  that  everything  is  in  its  place,  upstairs  with 
you,  and  on  with  your  bonnet,  do  you  hear  ?  Uncle 
won't  wish  to  be  kept  waiting  for  you,  remember. 

ANNET.  I'm  all  ready  dressed,  except  for  my  bonnet, 
Aunt.  'Tis  Millie  that's  like  to  keep  Uncle  waiting  this 
morning.  [She  goes  out. 

[DANIEL  comes  in. 

DANIEL.  Well,  Mother — well,  girls — but,  bless  my 
soul,  where's  Millie  got  to  ? 

ELIZABETH.  Millie  has  not  seen  fit  to  shew  herself 
this  morning,  Father.  She's  biding  up  in  her  room  with 
the  door  locked,  and  nothing  that  I've  been  able  to  say 
has  been  attended  to,  so  perhaps  you'll  kindly  have 
your  try. 

DANIEL.  Bless  my  soul — where's  May  ?  Where's 
Annet  ?  Send  one  of  the  little  maids  up  to  her,  and  tell 
her  'tis  very  nigh  time  for  us  to  be  off. 

ELIZABETH.  I'm  fairly  tired  of  sending  up  to  her, 
Father.  You'd  best  go  yourself. 

[MAY  comes  into  the  room. 

MAY.  Please  Aunt,  the  door,  'tis  still  locked,  and 
Millie  is  crying  ever  so  sadly  within,  and  she  won't  open 
to  me,  nor  speak,  nor  nothing. 

ELIZABETH.  There,  Father, — perhaps  you'll  believe 
what  I  tell  you  another  time.  Millie  has  got  that 
hardened  and  wayward,  there's  no  managing  of  her, 
there's  not. 


28  THE   LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  in 

DANIEL.  Ah,  'twon't  be  very  long  as  us'll  have  the 
managing  of  she.  'Twill  be  young  Andrew  as'll  take 
she  in  hand  after  this  day. 

ELIZABETH.  'Tis  all  very  well  to  talk  of  young 
Andrew,  but  who's  a-going  to  get  her  to  church  with 
him  I'd  like  to  know. 

DANIEL.    Why,  'tis  me  as'll  do  it,  to  be  sure. 

ELIZABETH.  Very  well,  Father,  and  we  shall  all  be 
much  obliged  to  you. 

[DANIEL  goes  to  the  door  and  shouts  up  the  stairs. 

DANIEL.  Well,  Millie,  my  wench.  Come  you  down 
here.  'Tis  time  we  did  set  out.  Do  you  hear  me,  Mill, 
'tis  time  we  was  off. 

[ELIZABETH  waits  listening.    No  answer  comes. 

DANIEL.  Don't  you  hear  what  I  be  saying,  Mill  ? 
Come  you  down  at  once.  [There  is  no  answer. 

DANIEL.  Millie,  there  be  Andrew  a- waiting  for  to 
take  you  to  church.  Come  you  down  this  minute. 

ELIZABETH.  You'd  best  take  sommat  and  go  and 
break  open  the  door,  Father.  'Tis  the  sensiblest  thing 
as  you  can  do,  only  you'd  never  think  of  anything  like 
that  by  yourself. 

DANIEL.  I  likes  doing  things  my  own  way,  Mother. 
Women-folk,  they  be  so  buzzing.  'Tis  like  a  lot  of 
insects  around  of  anyone  on  a  summer's  day.  A-saying 
this  way  and  that — whilst  a  man  do  go  at  anything  quiet 
and  calm-like.  [ANNET  comes  in. 

ANNET.  Please,  Uncle,  Millie  says  that  she  isn't 
coming  down  for  no  one. 

DANIEL.  [Roaring  in  fury.]  What !  What's  that, 
my  wench — isn't  a-coming  down  for  no  one  ?  Hear  that, 
Mother,  hear  that  ?  I'll  have  sommat  to  say  to  that,  I 
will.  [Going  to  the  door. 

DANIEL.  [Roaring  up  the  stairs.]  Hark  you,  Mill, 
down  you  comes  this  moment  else  I'll  smash  the  door 
right  in,  and  that  I  will. 

[DANIEL  comes  back  into  the  room,    storming 
violently. 

DANIEL.     Ah,   'tis  a  badly  bred  up  wench  is  Millie, 


ACT  m  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  29 

and  her'd  have  growed  up  very  different  if  I'd  a-had  the 
bringing  up  of  she.  But  spoiled  she  is  and  spoiled 
her've  always  been,  and  what  could  anyone  look  for 
from  a  filly  what's  been  broke  in  by  women  folk  ! 

ELIZABETH.  There,  there,  Father — there's  no  need  to 
bluster  in  this  fashion.  Take  up  the  poker  and  go  and 
break  into  the  door  quiet  and  decent,  like  anyone  else 
would  do.  And  girls — off  for  your  bonnets  this  moment 
I  tell  you. 

[She  takes  up  a  poker  and  hands  it  to  DANIEL, 
who  mops  his  face  and  goes  slowly  out  and 
upstairs.  ANNET  and  MAY  leave  the  room. 
The  farmer  is  heard  banging  at  the  door  of 
Millie's  bedroom. 

[ELIZABETH  moves  about  the  room  setting  it  in 
order.  ANDREW  comes  in  at  the  door.  He 
carries  a  bunch  of  flowers,  which  he  lays  on 
the  table. 

ANDREW.     Good-morning  to  you,  mistress. 
ELIZABETH.     Good-morning,  Andrew. 
ANDREW.    What's  going  on  upstairs  ? 
ELIZABETH.     'Tis  Father  at  a  little  bit  of  carpentering. 
ANDREW.     I'm  come  too  soon,  I  reckon. 
ELIZABETH     We  know  what  young  men  be  upon 
their  wedding  morn  !     I  warrant  as  the  clock  can't  run 
too  fast  for  them  at  such  a  time. 

ANDREW.  You're  right  there,  mistress.  But  the 
clock  have  moved  powerful  slow  all  these  last  few 
weeks- — for  look  you  here,  'tis  a  month  this  day  since 
I  last  set  eyes  on  Mill  or  had  a  word  from  her  lips — so  'tis. 
ELIZABETH.  You'll  have  enough  words  presently. 
Hark,  she's  coming  down  with  Father  now. 

[ANDREW  turns  eagerly  towards  the  door.  The 
farmer  enters  with  MILLIE  clinging  to  his 
arm,  she  wears  her  ordinary  dress.  Her 
hair  is  ruffled  and  in  disorder,  and  she  has 
been  crying. 

DANIEL.     Andrew,  my  lad,  good  morning  to  you. 
ANDREW.     Good  morning,  master. 


30  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  m 

DANIEL.  You  mustn't  mind  a  bit  of  an  April  shower, 
my  boy.  'Tis  the  way  with  all  maids  on  their  wedding 
morn.  Isn't  that  so,  Mother  ? 

ELIZABETH.  I  wouldn't  make  such  a  show  of  myself 
if  I  was  you,  Mill.  Go  upstairs  this  minute  and  wash 
your  face  and  smooth  your  hair  and  put  yourself  ready 
for  church. 

DANIEL.  Nay,  she  be  but  just  come  from  upstairs, 
Mother.  Let  her  bide  quiet  a  while  with  young  Andrew 
here  ;  whilst  do  you  come  along  with  me  and  get  me  out 
my  Sunday  coat.  'Tis  time  I  was  dressed  for  church 
too,  I'm  thinking. 

ELIZABETH.  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  the  house 
this  morning,  and  that's  the  truth.  Andrew,  I'll  not 
have  you  keep  Millie  beyond  a  five  minutes.  'Tis 
enough  of  one  another  as  you'll  get  later  on,  like.  Father, 
go  you  off  upstairs  for  your  coat.  'Tis  hard  work  for 
me,  getting  you  all  to  act  respectable,  that  'tis. 

[DANIEL  and  ELIZABETH  leave  the  room.  AN- 
DBEW  moves  near  MILLIE  and  holds  out 
both  his  hands.  She  draws  herself  haughtily 
away. 

ANDREW.    Millie — 'tis  our  wedding  day. 

MILLIE.     And  what  if  it  is,  Andrew. 

ANDREW.  Millie,  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  see  your 
face  all  wet  with  tears. 

MILLIE.     Did  you  think  to  see  it  otherwise,  Andrew  ? 

ANDREW.    No  smile  upon  your  lips,  Millie. 

MILLIE.     Have  I  anything  to  smile  about,  Andrew  ? 

ANDREW.    No  love  coming  from  your  eyes,  Mill. 

MILLIE.    That  you  have  never  seen,  Andrew. 

ANDREW.    And  all  changed  in  the  voice  of  you  too. 

MILLIE.    What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Andrew  ? 

ANDREW.  Listen,  Millie — 'tis  a  month  since  I  last 
spoke  with  you.  Do  you  recollect  ?  'Twas  the  evening 
of  the  great  Fair. 

MILLIE     And  what  if  it  was  ? 

ANDREW.  Millie,  you  were  kinder  to  me  that  night 
than  ever  you  had  been  before.  I  seemed  to  see  such 


ACT  ill  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  31 

a  gentle  look  in  your  eyes  then.  And  when  you  spoke, 
'twas  as  though — as  though — well — 'twas  one  of  they 
quists  a-cooing  up  in  the  trees  as  I  was  put  in  mind  of. 

MILLIE.  Well,  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said  about 
that  now,  Andrew.  That  night's  over  and  done  with. 

ANDREW.  I've  carried  the  thought  of  it  in  my  heart 
all  this  time,  Millie. 

MILLIE.     I  never  asked  you  to,  Andrew. 

ANDREW.  I've  brought  you  a  nosegay  of  flowers, 
Mill.  They  be  rare  blossoms  with  grand  names  what  I 
can't  recollect  to  all  of  them. 

[MILLIE  takes  the  nosegay,  looks  at  it  for  an 
instant,  and  then  lets  it  fall. 

MILLIE.  I  have  no  liking  for  flowers  this  day, 
Andrew. 

ANDREW.  O  Millie,  and  is  it  so  as  you  and  me  are 
going  to  our  marriage  ? 

MILLIE.  Yes,  Andrew.  'Tis  so.  I  never  said  it 
could  be  different.  I  have  no  heart  to  give  you.  My 
love  was  given  long  ago  to  another.  And  that  other 
has  forgotten  me  by  now. 

ANDREW.  O  Millie,  you  shall  forget  him  too  when 
once  you  are  wed  to  me,  I  promise  you. 

MILLIE.  'Tis  beyond  the  power  of  you  or  any  man 
to  make  me  do  that,  Andrew. 

ANDREW.  Millie,  what's  the  good  of  we  two  going 
on  to  church  one  with  t'other  ? 

MILLIE.     There's  no  good  at  all,  Andrew. 

ANDREW.  Millie,  I  could  have  sworn  that  you  had 
begun  to  care  sommat  more  than  ordinary  for  me  that 
last  time  we  were  together. 

MILLIE.  Then  you  could  have  sworn  wrong.  I  care 
nothing  for  you,  Andrew,  no,  nothing.  But  I  gave  my 
word  I'd  go  to  church  with  you  and  be  wed.  And — 
I'll  not  break  my  word,  I'll  not. 

ANDREW.  And  is  this  all  that  you  can  say  to  me  to- 
day, Mill  ? 

MILLIE.  Yes,  Andrew,  'tis  all.  And  now,  'tis  very 
late,  and  I  have  got  to  dress  myself. 


32  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  m 

ELIZABETH.  [Calling  loudly  from  above.]  Millie,  what 
are  you  stopping  for  ?  Come  you  up  here  and  get  your 
gown  on,  do. 

[MILLIE  looks  haughtily  at  ANDREW  as  she 
passes  him.  She  goes  slowly  out  of  the 
room. 

[ANDREW  picks  up  the  flowers  and  stands 
holding  them,  looking  disconsolately  down 
upon  them.  MAY  comes  in,  furtively. 

MAY.  All  alone,  Andrew  ?  Has  Millie  gone  to  put  her 
fine  gown  on  ? 

ANDREW.     Yes,  Millie's  gone  to  dress  herself. 

MAY.  0  that's  a  beautiful  nosegay,  Andrew.  Was  it 
brought  for  Mill  ? 

ANDREW.     Yes,  May,  but  she  won't  have  it. 

MAY.  Millie  don't  like  you  very  much,  Andrew,  do 
she  ? 

ANDREW.  Millie's  got  quite  changed  towards  me 
since  last  time. 

MAY.    And  when  was  that,  Andrew  ? 

ANDREW.  Why,  last  time  was  the  evening  of  the 
Fair,  May. 

MAY.  When  I  was  hid  in  the  cupboard  yonder, 
Andrew  ? 

ANDREW.  So  you  were,  May.  Well,  can't  you 
recollect  how  'twas  that  she  spoke  to  me  then  ? 

MAY.  0  yes,  Andrew,  and  that  I  can.  'Twas  a 
quist  a-cooing  in  the  tree  one  time — and  then — she  did 
recollect  herself  and  did  sharpen  up  her  tongue  and 
'twas  another  sort  of  bird  what  could  drive  its  beak 
into  the  flesh  of  anyone — so  'twas. 

ANDREW.  0  May — you  say  she  did  recollect  herself— 
what  do  you  mean  by  those  words  ? 

MAY.  You  see,  she  did  give  her  word  that  she  would 
speak  sharp  and  rough  to  you. 

ANDREW.  What  are  you  talking  about,  May  ?  Do 
you  mean  that  the  tongue  of  her  was  not  speaking  as 
the  heart  of  her  did  feel  ? 

MAY.     I  guess  'twas  sommat  like  that,  Andrew. 


ACT  m  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  33 

ANDREW.  O  May,  you  have  gladdened  me  powerful 
by  these  words. 

MAY.     But,  0  you  must  not  tell  of  me,  Andrew. 

ANDREW .  I  will  never  do  so,  May — only  I  shall 
know  better  how  to  be  patient,  and  to  keep  the  spirit 
of  me  up  next  time  that  she  do  strike  out  against  me. 

MAY.     I'm  not  a-talking  of  Mill,  Andrew. 

ANDREW.  Who  are  you  talking  of  then,  I'd  like  to 
know  ? 

MAY.     'Twas  Annet. 

ANDREW.    What  was  ? 

MAY.  Annet  who  was  dressed  up  in  the  cloak  and 
bonnet  of  Millie  that  night  and  who  did  speak  with  you 
so  gentle  and  nice. 

ANDREW.    Annet ! 

ELIZABETH.  [Is  heard  calling.]  There,  father,  come 
along  down  and  give  your  face  a  wash  at  the  pump. 

MAY.  Let's  go  quick  together  into  the  garden, 
Andrew,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  and  how  'twas 
that  Annet  acted  so. 

[She  seizes  ANDREW'S  hand  and  pulls  him  out 
of  the  room  with  her. 

[Curtain.] 


ACT  III.— Scene  2. 

A  few  minutes  later. 

ELIZABETH  stands  tying  her  bonnet  strings  before  a  small 
mirror  on  the  wall.  DANIEL  is  mopping  his  face 
with  a  big,  bright  handkerchief.  ANNET,  dressed 
for  church,  is  by  the  table.  She  sadly  takes  up  the 
nosegay  of  flowers  which  ANDREW  brought  for  MILLIE, 
and  moves  her  hand  caressingly  over  it. 
ELIZABETH.  If  you  think  that  your  neckerchief  is 

put  on  right  'tis  time  you  should  know  different,  Father. 


34  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  ra 

DANIEL.  What's  wrong  with  it  then,  I'd  like  to 
know  ? 

ELIZABETH.  'Tis  altogether  wrong.  'Tis  like  the 
two  ears  of  a  heifer  sticking  out  more  than  anything 
else  that  I  can  think  on. 

DANIEL.  Have  it  your  own  way,  Mother — and  fix 
it  as  you  like. 

[He  stands  before  her  and  she  rearranges  it. 

ANNET.     These  flowers  were  lying  on  the  ground. 

ELIZABETH.  Thrown  there  in  a  fine  fit  of  temper,  I 
warrant. 

DANIEL.  Her  was  as  quiet  as  a  new  born  lamb  once 
the  door  was  broke  open  and  she  did  see  as  my  word, 
well,  'twas  my  word. 

ELIZABETH.  We  all  hear  a  great  deal  about  your 
word,  Father,  but  'twould  be  better  for  there  to  be  more 
do  and  less  say  about  you. 

DANIEL.  [Going  over  to  Annet  and  looking  at  her 
intently.]  Why,  my  wench — what  be  you  a-dropping 
tears  for  this  day  ? 

ANNET.  [Drying  her  eyes.]  'Twas — 'twas  the  scent 
out  of  one  of  the  flowers  as  got  to  my  eyes,  Uncle. 

DANIEL.  Well,  that's  a  likely  tale  it  is.  Hear  that, 
Mother  ?  'Tis  with  her  eyes  that  this  little  wench  do 
snuff  at  a  flower.  That's  good,  bain't  it  ? 

ELIZABETH.  I  haven't  patience  with  the  wenches 
now-a-days.  Lay  down  that  nosegay  at  once,  Annet, 
and  call  your  cousin  from  her  room.  I  warrant  she  has 
finished  tricking  of  herself  up  by  now. 

DANIEL.    Ah,  I  warrant  as  her'll  need  a  smartish  bit 
of  time  for  to  take  the  creases  out  of  the  face  of  she. 
[ANDREW  and  MAY  come  in.] 

DANIEL.  Well,  Andrew,  my  lad,  'tis  about  time  as 
we  was  on  the  way  to  church  I  reckon. 

ANDREW.     I  count  as  'tis  full  early  yet,  master. 

[He  takes  up  the  nosegay  from  the  table  and 
crosses  the  room  to  the  window  where  ANNET 
is  standing,  and  trying  to  control  her  tears. 

ANDREW.     Annet,    Millie    will    have    none    of    my 


ACT  m  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  35 

blossoms.     I  should  like  it  well  if  you  would  carry  them 
in  your  hand  to  church  this  day. 

ANNET.     [Looking  wonderingly  at  him. ~\    Me,  Andrew? 

ANDREW.  Yes,  you,  Annet.  For,  look  you,  they 
become  you  well.  They  have  sommat  of  the  sweetness 
of  you  in  them.  And  the  touch  of  them  is  soft  and 
gentle.  And — I  would  like  you  to  keep  them  in  your 
hands  this  day,  Annet. 

ANNET.  0  Andrew,  I  never  was  given  anything  like 
this  before. 

ANDREW.  [Slowly.]  I  should  like  to  give  you  a  great 
deal  more,  Annet— only  I  cannot.  And  'tis  got  too 
late. 

ELIZABETH.  Too  late — I  should  think  it  was.  What's 
come  to  the  maid  !  In  my  time  girls  didn't  use  to  spend 
a  quarter  of  the  while  afore  the  glass  as  they  do  now. 
Suppose  you  was  to  holler  for  her  again,  Father. 

DANIEL.    Anything  to  please  you,  Mother — 

MAY.  I  hear  her  coming,  Uncle.  I  hear  the  noise 
of  the  silk. 

[MILLIE  comes  slowly  into  the  room  in  her 
wedding  clothes.  She  holds  herself  very 
upright  and  looks  from  one  to  another 
quietly  and  coldly. 

MAY.     Andrew's  gived  your  nosegay  to  Annet,  Millie. 

MILLIE.  'Twould  have  been  a  pity  to  have  wasted 
the  fresh  blossoms. 

MAY.     But  they  were  gathered  for  you,  Mill. 

MILLIE.    Annet  seems  to  like  them  better  than  I  did. 

DANIEL.  Well,  my  wench — you  be  tricked  out  as 
though  you  was  off  to  the  horse  show.  Mother,  there 
bain't  no  one  as  can  beat  our  wench  in  looks  anywhere 
this  side  of  the  country. 

ELIZABETH.  She's  right  enough  in  the  clothing  of 
her,  but  'twould  be  better  if  her  looks  did  match  the 
garments  more.  Come,  Millie,  can't  you  appear 
pleasanter  like  on  your  wedding  day  ? 

MILLIE.  I'm  very  thirsty.  Mother.  Could  I  have  a 
drink  of  water  before  we  set  out  ? 


36  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  m 

ELIZABETH.     And  what  next,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 

MILLIE.     'Tis  only  a  drink  of  water  that  I'm  asking  for. 

DANIEL.    Well,  that's  reasonable,  Mother,  hain't  it  ? 

ELIZABETH.     Run    along    and    get    some    for    your 

cousin,  May.  [MAY  runs  out  of  the  room. 

DANIEL.    Come  you  here,  Andrew,  did  you  ever  see 

a  wench  to  beat  ourn  in  looks,  I  say  ? 

ANDREW.  [Who  has  remained  near  ANNET  without 
moving.}  'Tis  very  fine  that  Millie's  looking. 

DANIEL.  Fine,  I  should  think  'twas.  You  was  a  fine 
looking  wench,  Mother,  the  day  I  took  you  to  church, 
but  'tis  my  belief  that  Millie  have  beat  you  in  the 
appearance  of  her  same  as  the  roan  heifer  did  beat  th' 
old  cow  when  the  both  was  took  along  to  market.  Ah, 
and  did  fetch  very  near  the  double  of  what  I  gived  for 
the  dam. 

[MAY  returns  carrying  a  glass  bowl  full  of  water. 
MAY.    Here's  a  drink  of  cold  water,  Millie.     I  took  it 
from  the  spring. 

[MILLIE  takes  the  bowl.    At  the  same  moment  a 
loud  knocking  is  heard  at  the  outside  door. 
ELIZABETH.    Who's  that,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 

[MILLIE  sets  down  the  bowl  on  the  table.  She 
listens  with  a  sudden  intent,  anxiety  on  her 
face  as  the  knock  is  repeated. 

DANIEL.  I'll  learn  anyone  to  come  meddling  with  me 
on  a  day  when  'tis  marrying  going  on. 

[The  knocking  is  again  heard. 

MILLIE.  [To  MAY,  who  would  have  opened  the  door.] 
No,  no.  'Tis  I  who  will  open  the  door. 

[She  raises  the  latch  and  flings  the  door  wide  open. 
GILES  disguised  as  a  poor  and  bent  old  man, 
comes  painfully  into  the  room. 

ELIZABETH.  We  don't  want  no  beggars  nor  roadsters 
here  to-day,  if  you  please. 

DANIEL.  Ah,  and  that  us  don't.  Us  be  a  wedding 
party  here,  and  'tis  for  you  to  get  moving  on,  old  man. 

MILLIE.  He  is  poor  and  old.  And  he  has  wandered 
far,  in  the  heat  of  the  morning.  Look  at  his  sad  clothing. 


ACT  ni  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  37 

ANDREW.     [To  ANNET.]     I  never  heard  her  put  so 
much  gentleness  to  her  words  afore. 

MILLIE.     And  'tis  my  wedding  day.     He  shall  not  go 
uncomforted  from  here. 

ELIZABETH.     I  never  knowed  you  so  careful  of  a  poor 
wretch  afore,  Millie.     'Tis  quite  a  new  set  out,  this. 

MILLIE.     I   am   in  mind   of   another,   who   may   be 
wandering,  and  hungered,  and  in  poor  clothing  this  day. 
MAY.     Give  him  something  quick,  Aunt,  and  let  him 
get  off  so  that  we  can  start  for  the  wedding. 

MILLIE.     [Coming  close  to  GILES.]    What  is  it  I  can 
do  for  you,  master  ? 

GILES.     'Tis  only  a  drink  of  water  that  I  ask,  mistress. 
MILLIE.     [Taking  up  the  glass  bowl.]     Only  a  drink  of 
water,  master  ?     Then  take,  and  be  comforted. 

[She  holds  the  bowl  before  him  for  him  to  drink. 
As  he  takes  it,  he  drops  a  ring  into  the  water. 
He  then  drinks  and  hands  the  bowl  back  to 
MILLIE.     For  a  moment  she  gazes  speechless 
at  the  bottom  of  the  bowl.     Then  she  lifts 
the  ring  from  it  and  would  drop  the  bowl 
but  for  MAY,  who  takes  it  from  her. 
MILLIE.     Master,  from  whom  did  you  get  this  ? 
GILES.     Look  well  at  the  stones  of  it,  mistress,  for 
they  are  clouded  and  dim. 

MILLIE.     And  not  more  clouded  than  the  heart  which 
is  in  me,  master.     0  do  you  bring  me  news  ? 
GILES.     Is  it  not  all  too  late  for  news,  mistress  ? 
MILLIE.    Not  if  it  be  the  news  for  which  my  heart 
craves,  master. 
GILES.     And  what  would  that  be,  mistress  ? 

[MILLIE  goes  to  GILES,  and  with  both  hands 
slowly  pushes  back  his  big  hat  and  gazes 
at  him. 

MILLIE.     O  Giles,  my  true  love.    You  are  come  just 
in  time.     Another  hour  and  I  should  have  been  wed. 
GILES.     And  so  you  knew  me,  Mill  ? 
MILLIE.     0  Giles,  no  change  of  any  sort  could  hide 
you  from  the  eyes  of  my  love. 


38  THE    LOVERS'   TASKS  ACT  m 

GILES.    Your  love,  Millie.     And  is  that  still  mine  ? 

MILLIE.  It  always  has  been  yours,  Giles.  0  I  will 
go  with  you  so  gladly  in  poor  clothing  and  in  hunger 
all  over  the  face  of  the  earth. 

[She  goes  to  him  and  clasps  his  arm ;  and, 
standing  by  his  side,  faces  all  those  in  the 
room. 

ELIZABETH.  [Angrily.']  Please  to  come  to  your  right 
senses,  Millie. 

DANIEL.  Come,  Andrew,  set  your  foot  down  as  I've 
set  mine. 

ANDREW.  Nay,  master.  There's  naught  left  for 
me  to  say.  The  heart  does  shew  us  better  nor  all  words 
which  way  we  have  to  travel. 

MAY.  And  are  you  going  to  marry  a  beggar  man 
instead  of  Andrew,  who  looks  so  brave  and  fine  in  bis 
wedding  clothes,  Millie  ? 

MILLIE.  I  am  going  to  marry  him  I  have  always 
loved,  May — and — 0  Andrew,  I  never  bore  you  malice, 
though  I  did  say  cruel  and  hard  words  to  you  sometimes. 
- — But  you'll  not  remember  me  always — you  will  find 
gladness  too,  some  day. 

ANDREW.    I  count  as  I  shall,  Millie. 

DANIEL.  Come,  come,  I'll  have  none  of  this — my 
daughter  wed  to  a  beggar  off  the  highway  !  Mother, 
'tis  time  you  had  a  word  here. 

ELIZABETH.  No,  Father,  I'll  leave  you  to  manage 
this  affair.  'Tis  you  who  have  spoiled  Mill  and  brought 
her  up  so  wayward  and  unruly,  and  'tis  to  you  I  look 
for  to  get  us  out  of  this  unpleasant  position. 

MAY.  Dear  Millie — don't  wed  my  brother  Giles. 
Why,  look  at  his  ragged  smock  and  his  bare  feet. 

MILLIE.  I  shall  be  proud  to  go  bare  too,  so  long  as  I 
am  by  his  side,  May. 

[GILES  goes  to  the  door  and  blows  his  whistle 
three  times  and  loudly. 

MAY.    What's  that  for,  Giles  ? 

GILES.    You  shall  soon  see,  little  May. 

DANIEL.     I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  stand  any  more  of  this 


ACT  m  THE   LOVERS'    TASKS  39 

caddling  nonsense.     Here,  Mill — the  trap's  come  to  the 
door.     Into  it  with  you,  I  say. 
GILES.     I  beg  you  to  wait  a  moment,  master. 
DANIEL.    Wait ! — 'Tis  a  sight  too  long  as  we  have 
waited  this  day.     If  all  had  been  as  I'd  planned,  we 
should  have  been  to  church  by  now.     But  womenfolk, 
there  be  no  depending  on  they.    No,  and  that  there 
bain't. 

[GEORGE,  JOHN  and  the  OLD  MAN   come  up. 
GEORGE  and  JOHN  carry  their  packets  and 
the  OLD  MAN  has  GILES'  coat  and  hat  over 
his  arm. 
ELIZABETH.     And  who  are  these  persons,  Giles  ? 

[GEORGE  and  JOHN  set  down  their  burdens  on 
the  floor  and  begin  to  mop  their  faces.  The 
OLD  MAN  stretches  out  his  fine  coat  and  hat 
and  buckled  shoes  to  GILES. 

OLD  MAN.  Here  they  be,  my  lord,  and  I  warrant  as 
you'll  feel  more  homely  like  in  they,  nor  what  you've 
got  upon  you  now.  [GILES  takes  the  things  from  him. 
GILES.  Thank  you,  old  master.  [He  turns  to  MILLIE.] 
Let  me  go  into  the  other  room,  Millie.  I  will  not  keep 
you  waiting  longer  than  a  few  moments. 

[He  goes  out. 

ELIZABETH.  [To  GEORGE.]  And  who  may  you  be, 
I  should  like  to  know  ?  You  appear  to  be  making  very 
free  with  my  parlour. 

GEORGE.  We  be  the  servants  what  wait  upon  Master 
Giles,  old  Missis. 

ELIZABETH.  Old  Missis,  indeed.  Father,  you  shall 
speak  to  these  persons. 

DANIEL.  Well,  my  men.  I  scarce  do  know  whether 
I  be  a-standing  on  my  head  or  upon  my  heels,  and  that's 
the  truth  'tis. 

GEORGE.  Ah,  and  that  I  can  well  understand,  master, 
for  I'm  a  married  man  myself,  and  my  woman  has  a 
tongue  to  her  head  very  similar  to  that  of  th'  old  missis 
yonder — so  I  know  what  'tis. 

ELIZABETH.     Put  them  both  out  of  the  door,  Father, 


40  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  m 

do  you  hear  me  ?     'Tis  to  the  cider  as  they've  been 
getting.    That's  clear. 

MILLIE.  My  good  friends,  what  is  it  that  you  carry 
in  those  bundles  there  ? 

GEORGE.     'Tis  gold  in  mine. 

JOHN.    And  silver  here. 

ELIZABETH.  Depend  upon  it  'tis  two  wicked  thieves 
we  have  got  among  us,  flying  from  justice. 

MILLIE.  No,  no — did  not  you  hear  them  say,  their 
master  is  Giles. 

GEORGE.    And  a  better  master  never  trod  the  earth. 

JOHN.  And  a  finer  or  a  richer  gentleman  I  never  want 
to  see. 

ELIZABETH.  Do  you  hear  that,  Father  1  0  you 
shocking  liars — 'tis  stolen  goods  that  you've  been  and 
brought  to  our  innocent  house  this  day.  But,  Father, 
do  you  up  and  fetch  in  the  constable,  do  you  hear  ? 

MAY.  O  I'll  run.  I  shall  love  to  see  them  going  off 
to  gaol. 

MILLIE.  Be  quiet,  May.  Can't  you  all  see  how  'tis. 
Giles  has  done  the  cruel  hard  task  set  him  by  Father — 
and  is  back  again  with  the  bushel  of  silver  and  that  of 
gold  to  claim  my  hand.  [GILES  enters.]  But  Giles — 
I'd  have  given  it  to  you  had  you  come  to  me  poor  and 
forlorn  and  ragged,  for  my  love  has  never  wandered 
from  you  in  all  this  long  time. 

ANDREW.  No,  Giles — and  that  it  has  not.  Millie 
has  never  given  me  one  land  word  nor  one  gentle  look 
all  the  years  that  I've  been  courting  of  her,  and 
that's  the  truth.  And  you  can  call  witness  to  it  if  you 
care. 

GILES.  Uncle,  Aunt,  I've  done  the  task  you  set  me 
years  ago — and  now  I  claim  my  reward.  I  went  from 
this  house  a  poor  wretch,  with  nothing  but  the  hopeless 
love  in  my  heart  to  feed  and  sustain  me.  I  have  re- 
turned with  all  that  the  world  can  give  me  of  riches  and 
prosperity.  Will  you  now  let  me  be  the  husband  of 
your  daughter  ? 

MAY.    O  say  yes,  Uncle,  for  look  how  fine  and  grand 


ACT  in  THE    LOVERS'    TASKS  41 

he  is  in  his  coat — and  the  bags  are  stuffed  full  to  the  brim 
and  'tis  with  gold  and  silver. 

ELIZABETH.  Well — 'tis  a  respectabler  end  than  I 
thought  as  you'd  come  to,  Giles.  And  different  nor 
what  you  deserved. 

DANIEL.  Come,  come,  Mother. — The  fewer  words  to 
this,  the  better.  Giles,  my  boy — get  you  into  the  trap 
and  take  her  along  to  the  church  and  drive  smart. 

ANDREW.    Annet — will  you  come  there  with  me  too  ? 

ANNET.     O  Andrew — what  are  you  saying  ? 

DANIEL.  Come,  come.  Where's  the  wind  blowing 
from  now  ?  Here,  Mother,  do  you  listen  to  this. 

ELIZABETH.  I  shall  be  deaf  before  I've  done,  but  it 
appears  to  me  that  Annet's  not  lost  any  time  in  making 
the  most  of  her  chances. 

DANIEL.  Ah,  and  she  be  none  the  worse  for  that. 
'Tis  what  we  all  likes  to  do.  Where'd  I  be  in  the  market 
if  I  did  let  my  chances  blow  by  me  ?  Hear  that, 
Andrew  ? 

ANDREW.    I'm  a  rare  lucky  man  this  day,  farmer. 

DANIEL.  Ah,  and  'tis  a  rare  good  little  wench,  Annet 
— though  she  bain't  so  showy  as  our'n.  A  rare  good 
little  maid.  And  now  'tis  time  we  was  all  off  to  church, 
seeing  as  this  is  to  be  a  case  of  double  harness  like. 

MAY.     O  Annet,  you  can't  be  wed  in  that  plain  gown. 

ANNET.  May,  I'm  so  happy  that  I  feel  as  though  I 
were  clothed  aU  over  with  jewels. 

ANDREW.    Give  me  your  hand,  Annet. 

MAY.  [Mockingly.]  Millie — don't  you  want  to  give 
a  drink  of  water  to  yon  poor  old  man  ? 

MILLIE.  That  I  will,  May  ?  Here — fetch  me  some- 
thing that's  better  than  water  for  him. 

ELIZABETH,  I'll  have  no  cider  drinking  out  of  meal 
times  here. 

MILLIE.  Then  'twill  have  to  be  when  we  come  back 
from  church. 

OLD  MAN.  Bless  you,  my  pretty  lady,  but  I  be  used 
to  waiting.  I'll  just  sit  me  down  outside  in  the  sun  till 
you  be  man  and  wife. 


42  THE   LOVERS'    TASKS  ACT  m 

ELIZABETH  And  that'll  not  be  till  this  day  next  year 
if  this  sort  of  thing  goes  on  any  longer. 

DANIEL.  That's  right,  Mother.  You  take  and  lead 
the  way.  'Tis  the  womenfolk  as  do  keep  we  back  from 
everything.  But  I  knows  how  to  settle  with  they — 
[roaring] — come  Mill,  come  Giles,  Andrew,  Annet,  May. 
Come  Mother,  out  of  th'  house  with  all  of  you  and  to 
church,  I  say. 

[He  gets  behind  them  all  and  drives  them  before 
him  and  out  of  the  room.  When  they  have 
gone,  the  OLD  MAN  sinks  on  a  bench  in  the 
door-way. 

OLD  MAN.  I'm  done  with  all  the  foolishness  of  life 
and  I  can  sit  me  down  and  sleep  till  it  be  time  to  eat. 

[Curtain.] 


BUSHES    AND    BRIARS 


L.T.  2 


CHARACTERS 

THOMAS  SPRING,  a  farmer,  aged  35. 

EMILY,  his  wife,  the  same  age. 

CLARA,  his  sister,  aged  21. 

JESSIE  AND  ROBIN,  the  children  of  Thomas  and  Emily, 

aged  10  and  8. 
JOAN,  maid  to  Clara. 
MILES  HOOPER,  a  rich  draper. 
LTJKE  JENNER,  a  farmer. 
LORD  LOVEL. 
GEORGE,  aged  28. 


BUSHES  AND   BRIARS. 
ACT  I.— Scene  1. 

A  wood.     It  is  a  morning  in  June. 

GEORGE,    carrying    an    empty    basket,     comes     slowly 
through  the  wood.     On   reaching  a  fallen    tree  he 
sits  down  on  it,  placing  his  basket  on  the  ground. 
With  his  stick  he  absently  moves  the  grass  and  leaves 
that  lie  before  him,  and  is  so  deeply  lost  in  his  own 
thoughts  that  he  does  not  hear  the  approach  of  MILES 
and  LUKE  until  they  are  by  his  side. 
MILES.     Here's  the  very  man  to  tell  us  all  we  want 
to  know. 
LUKE.    Why,  if  'tisn't  George  from  Ox  Lease. 

[GEORGE  half  rises. 

MILES.  No,  sit  you  down  again,  my  lad,  and  we'll 
rest  awhile  by  the  side  of  you. 

LUKE.  That's  it,  Miles.  Nothing  couldn't  have 
fallen  out  better  for  us,  I'm  thinking. 

MILES.  You're  about  right,  Luke.  Now,  George, 
my  man,  we  should  very  much  appreciate  a  few  words 
with  you. 

GEORGE.  [Taking  up  his  basket.]  Morning  baint 
the  time  for  words,  masters.  I  count  as  words  will 
keep  till  the  set  of  sun.  'Tis  otherwise  with  work. 

MILES.  Work,  why,  George,  'tis  clear  you  are  come 
out  but  to  gather  flowers  this  morning. 

LUKE.  'Tis  the  very  first  time  as  ever  I  caught 
George  an  idling  away  of  his  time  like  this. 


4  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  i 

GEORGE.  'Tis  over  to  Brook  as  I  be  going,  masters, 
to  fetch  back  a  couple  of  young  chicken.  Ourn  be  mostly 
old  fowls,  or  pullets  what  do  lay. 

LUKE.  I  never  heard  tell  of  young  chicken  being 
ate  up  at  Ox  Lease  afore  July  was  in. 

GEORGE.  Nor  me  neither,  master.  Never  heared 
nor  seed  such  a  thing.  But  mistress,  her  says,  you 
can't  sit  a  maid  from  town  at  table  unless  there  be  poultry 
afore  of  she.  They  be  rare  nesh  in  their  feeding,  maids 
from  town,  so  mistress  do  say. 

MILES.  That  just  brings  us  to  our  little  matter, 
George.  When  is  it  that  you  expect  the  young  lady  ? 

GEORGE.  The  boxes  of  they  be  stacked  mountains 
high  in  the  bedroom  since  yesterday.  And  I  count 
as  the  maids  will  presently  come  on  their  own  feet 
from  where  the  morning  coach  do  set  them  down. 

LUKE.  Nay,  but  there's  only  one  maid  what's 
expected. 

GEORGE.  Miss  Clara,  what's  master's  sister ;  and 
the  serving  wench  of  she. 

MILES.  Well,  George,  'twas  a  great  day  for  your 
master  when  old  Madam  Lovel  took  little  Miss  Clara 
to  be  bred  up  as  one  of  the  quality. 

GEORGE.  A  water  plant  do  grow  best  by  the  stream, 
and  a  blossom  from  the  meadows,  midst  the  grass. 
Let  each  sort  bide  in  the  place  where  'twas  seeded. 

MILES.  No,  no,  George,  you  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  about.  A  little  country  wench  may  bloom 
into  something  very  modish  and  elegant,  once  taken 
from  her  humble  home  and  set  amongst  carpets  of  velvet 
and  curtains  of  satin.  You'll  see. 

GEORGE.  'Twould  be  a  poor  thing  for  any  one  to 
be  so  worked  upon  by  curtains,  nor  yet  carpets,  master. 

MILES.  Take  my  word  for  it,  George,  Ox  Lease  will 
have  to  smarten  up  a  bit  for  this  young  lady.  I  know 
the  circles  she  has  been  moving  in,  and  'tis  to  the  best 
of  everything  that  she  has  been  used. 

GEORGE.  [Rising.]  That's  what  mistress  do  say. 
And  that's  why  I  be  sent  along  down  to  Brook  with 


ACT  i  BUSHES  AND    BRIARS  5 

haymaking  going  on  and  all.  Spring  chicken  with 
sparrow  grass  be  the  right  feeding  for  such  as  they.  So 
mistress  do  count. 

MILES.  Stop  a  moment,  George.  You  have  perhaps 
heard  the  letters  from  Miss  Clara  discussed  in  the  family 
from  time  to  time. 

GEORGE.  Miss  Clara  did  never  send  but  two  letters 
home  in  all  the  while  she  was  gone.  The  first  of  them 
did  tell  as  how  th'  old  lady  was  dead  and  had  left  all 
of  her  fortune  to  Miss  Clara.  And  the  second  was  to 
say  as  how  her  was  coming  back  to  the  farm  this  morn- 
ing. 

LUKE.  And  hark  you  here,  George,  was  naught 
mentioned  about  Miss  Clara's  fine  suitors  in  neither 
of  them  letters  ? 

GEORGE.    That  I  cannot  say,  Master  Jenner. 

MILES.  Nothing  of  their  swarming  thick  around  her 
up  in  London,  George  ? 

GEORGE.  They  may  be  swarming  by  the  thousand 
for  aught  as  I  do  know.  They  smells  gold  as  honey 
bees  do  smell  the  blossom.  Us'll  have  a  good  few  of 
them  a-buzzing  round  the  farm  afore  we're  many  hours 
older,  so  I  counts. 

MILES.  Well,  George,  that'll  liven  up  the  place  a 
bit,  I  don't  doubt. 

LUKE.  'Tis  a  bit  of  quiet  and  no  livening  as  Ox 
Lease  do  want.  Isn't  that  so,  George,  my  lad  ? 

GEORGE.  [Preparing  to  set  off.]  I'll  say  good  morn- 
ing to  you,  masters.  I  count  I've  been  and  wasted 
a  smartish  time  already  on  the  road.  We  be  a  bit 
hard  pressed  up  at  the  farm  this  day. 

MILES.  But  George,  my  man,  we  have  a  good 
many  questions  to  ask  of  you  before  you  set  off. 

GEORGE.  Them  questions  will  have  to  bide  till 
another  time,  I  reckon.  I'm  got  late  already,  master. 

[He  hurries  off. 

MILES.  Arriving  by  the  morning  coach  !  I  shall 
certainly  make  my  call  to  the  farm  before  sunset. 
What  do  you  say,  Jenner  ? 


6  BUSHES   AND   BRIARS  ACT  i 

LUKE.  You're  a  rich  man,  Miles,  and  I  am  poor. 
But  we  have  always  been  friends. 

MILES.    And  our  fathers  before  us,  Luke. 

LUKE.  And  the  courting  of  the  same  maid  shall  not 
come  between  us. 

MILES.     [Slowly.]  That'll  be  all  right,  Luke. 

LUKE.  What  I  do  say  is,  let's  start  fair.  Neck  to 
neck,  like. 

MILES.    As  you  please,  my  good  Luke. 

LUKE.  Then,  do  you  tell  me  honest,  shall  I  do  in 
the  clothes  I'm  a- wearing  of  now,  Miles  ? 

MILES.  [Regarding  him  critically.]  That  neckerchief 
is  not  quite  the  thing,  Luke. 

LUKE.     'Tis  my  Sunday  best. 

MILES.  Step  over  to  the  High  Street  with  me,  my 
lad.  I've  got  something  in  the  shop  that  will  be  the 
very  thing.  You  shall  have  it  half  price  for  'tis  only 
a  bit  damaged  in  one  of  the  corners. 

LUKE.  I'm  sure  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you, 
Miles. 

MILES.    That's  all  right,  Luke. 

LUKE.  George  would  look  better  to  my  thinking  if 
there  was  a  new  coat  to  the  back  of  him. 

MILES.  Ah,  poor  beggar,  he  would,  and  no 
mistake. 

LUKE.  I  warrant  as  Emily  do  keep  it  afore  him  as 
how  he  was  took  in  from  off  the  road  by  th'  old  farmer 
in  his  day. 

MILES.  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  a  certain  way 
with  the  ladies.  They  come  to  me  confidential  like 
and  I  tell  them  what's  what,  and  how  that,  this  or 
t'other  is  worn  about  town.  But  with  Missis  Spring 
'tis  different.  That's  a  woman  I  could  never  get  the 
right  side  of  no  how. 

LUKE.  Ah,  poor  Thomas !  There's  a  man  who 
goes  down  trod  and  hen  scratched  if  you  like. 

MILES.  'Tis  altogether  a  very  poor  place  up  at  Ox 
Lease,  for  young  Miss. 

LUKE.     (Pulling  out  his  watch.]    Time's  slipping  on. 


ACT  i  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  7 

What  if  we  were  to  stroll  on  to  the  shop  and  see  about 
my  neckerchief,  Miles  ? 

MILES.     I'm  sure  I'm  quite  agreeable,  Luke.     'Twill 
help  to  pass  away  the  morning. 

[He  puts  his  arm  in  LUKE'S  and  they  go  briskly 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  village. 


ACT  I.— Scene  2. 

CLARA,  followed  by  JOAN,  comes  through  the  wood.  CLARA 
is  dressed  in  a  long,  rich  cloak  and  wears  a  bonnet 
that  is  brightly  trimmed  with  feathers  and  ribbons. 
JOAN  wears  a  cotton  bonnet  and  small  shawl.  She 
carries  her  mistress's  silken  bag  over  her  arm. 

CLARA.  [Pointing  to  the  fallen  tree.]  There  is  the 
very  resting  place  for  us.  We  will  sit  down  under  the 
trees  for  a  while.  [She  seats  herself. 

JOAN.  [Dusting  the  tree  with  her  handkerchief  before 
she  sits  on  it.]  Have  we  much  further  to  go,  mistress  ? 

CLARA.     Only  a  mile  or  two,  so  far  as  I  can  remember. 

JOAN.  'Tis  rough  work  for  the  feet,  down  in  these 
parts,  mistress. 

CLARA.  If  London  roads  were  paved  with  diamonds 
I'd  sooner  have  my  feet  treading  this  rugged  way  that 
leads  to  home. 

JOAN.  What  sort  of  a  place  shall  we  find  it  when  we 
gets  there,  mistress. 

CLARA.  I  was  but  seven  when  I  left  them  all,  Joan. 
And  that  is  fourteen  years  ago  to-day. 

JOAN.  So  many  years  may  bring  about  some  powerful 
big  changes,  mistress. 

CLARA.     But  I  dream  that  I  shall  find  all  just  as  it 


8  BUSHES   AND    BRIARS  ACT  i 

was  when  I  went  away.     Only  that  Gran'ma  won't 
be  there. 

{There  is  a  short  silence  during  which  CLARA 
seems  lost  in  thought.  JOAN  flicks  the  dust 
off  her  shoes  with  a  branch  of  leaves. 

JOAN.     'Tis  the  coaches  I  do  miss  down  in  these  parts. 

CLARA.  I  would  not  have  driven  one  step  of  the  way 
this  morning,  Joan.  In  my  fancy  I  have  been  walking 
up  from  the  village  and  through  the  wood  and  over 
the  meadows  since  many  a  day.  I  have  not  forgotten 
one  turn  of  the  path. 

JOAN.    The  road  has  not  changed  then,  mistress  ? 

CLARA.  No.  But  it  does  not  seem  quite  so  broad 
or  so  fine  as  I  remembered  it  to  be.  That  is  all. 

JOAN.  And  very  likely  the  house  won't  seem  so 
fine  neither,  mistress,  after  the  grand  rooms  which 
you  have  been  used  to. 

JOAN.     What  company  shall  we  see  there,  mistress  ? 

CLARA.  Well,  there's  Thomas,  he  is  my  brother, 
and  Emily  his  wife.  Then  the  two  children. 

CLARA.  [After  a  short  silence,  and  as  though  to  herself.] 
And  there  was  George. 

JOAN.     Yes,  mistress  ? 

CLARA.  Georgie  seemed  so  big  and  tall  to  me  in  those 
days.  I  wonder  how  old  he  really  was,  when  I  was 
seven. 

JOAN.  Would  that  be  a  younger  brother  of  yours, 
like,  mistress  ? 

CLARA.  No,  George  minded  the  horses  and  looked 
after  the  cows  and  poultry.  Sometimes  he  would  drive 
me  into  market  with  him  on  a  Saturday.  And  in  the 
evenings  I  would  follow  him  down  to  the  pool  to  see 
the  cattle  watered. 

JOAN.  I'm  mortal  af eared  of  cows,  mistress.  I  could 
never  abide  the  sight  nor  the  sound  of  those  animals. 

CLARA.     You'll  soon  get  over  that,  Joan. 

JOAN.  And  I  don't  care  for  poultry  neither,  very 
much.  I  goes  full  of  fear  when  I  hears  one  of  they  old 
turkey  cocks  stamping  about. 


ACT  i  BUSHES   AND   BRIARS  9 

CLARA.  [Pulling  up  the  sleeve  of  her  left  arm.]  There, 
do  you  see  this  little  scar  ?  I  was  helping  George  to 
feed  the  ducks  and  geese  when  the  fierce  gander  ran 
after  me  and  knocked  me  down  and  took  a  piece  right 
out  of  my  arm. 

JOAN.  [Looking  intently  on  the  scar.]  I  have  often 
seen  that  there  mark,  mistress.  And  do  you  think 
as  that  old  gander  will  be  living  along  of  the  poultry 
still? 

CLARA.     I  wish  he  might  be,  Joan. 

JOAN.  What  with  the  cows  and  the  horses  and  the 
ganders,  we  shall  go  with  our  lives  in  our  hands,  as 
you  might  say. 

CLARA.  [As  though  to  herself.]  When  the  days  got 
colder,  we  would  sit  under  the  straw  rick,  George  and 
I.  And  he  would  sing  to  me.  Some  of  his  songs,  I 
could  say  off  by  heart  this  day. 

JOAN.  [Looking  nervously  upward.]  0  do  look  at 
that  nasty  little  thing  dropping  down  upon  us  from  a 
piece  of  thread  silk.  Who  ever  put  such  a  thing  up  in 
the  tree  I'd  like  to  know. 

CLARA.  [Brushing  it  gently  aside.]  That  won't  hurt 
you — a  tiny  caterpillar. 

JOAN.  [After  a  moment.]  What  more  could  the 
farm  hand  do,  mistress  ? 

CLARA.  He  would  clasp  on  his  bells  and  dance  in 
the  Morris  on  certain  days,  Joan. 

JOAN.  'Tis  to  be  hoped  as  there'll  be  some  dancing 
or  something  to  liven  us  all  up  a  bit  down  here. 

CLARA.  Why,  Joan,  I  believe  you're  tired  already 
of  the  country. 

JOAN.     'Tis  so  powerful  quiet  and  heavy  like,  mistress. 

CLARA.  'Tis  full  of  sounds.  Listen  to  the  doves 
in  the  trees  and  the  lambs  calling  from  the  meadow. 

JOAN.  I'd  sooner  have  the  wheels  of  the  coaches 
and  the  cries  upon  the  street,  and  the  door  bell  a 
ringing  every  moment  and  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies 
being  shewn  up  into  the  parlour. 

CLARA.     [Stretching  out  her  arms.]    O  how  glad   I 


10  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  i 

am  to  be  free  of  all  that.     And  most  of  all,  how  glad 
to  be  ridded  of  one  person. 

JOAN.  His  lordship  will  perhaps  follow  us  down 
here,  mistress. 

CLARA.  No,  I  have  forbidden  it.  I  must  have  a 
month  of  quiet,  and  he  is  to  wait  that  time  for  his 
answer. 

JOAN.  0  mistress,  you'll  never  disappoint  so  fine  a 
gentleman. 

CLARA.  You  forget  that  Lord  Lovel  and  I  have 
played  together  as  children.  It  is  as  a  brother  that  I 
look  upon  him. 

JOAN.  His  lordship  don't  look  upon  you  as  a  sister, 
mistress. 

CLARA.  [Rising.]  That  is  a  pity,  Joan.  But  see, 
it  is  getting  late  and  we  must  be  moving  onwards. 

[JOAN  rises  and  smoothes  and  shakes  out  her 
skirt. 

CLARA.  Here,  loosen  my  cloak,  Joan,  and  untie  the 
ribbons  of  my  bonnet. 

JOAN.  0  mistress,  keep  the  pretty  clothes  upon 
you  till  you  have  got  to  the  house. 

CLARA.  No,  no — such  town  garments  are  not  suited 
to  the  woods  and  meadows.  I  want  to  feel  the  country 
breeze  upon  my  head,  and  my  limbs  must  be  free  from 
the  weight  of  the  cloak.  I  had  these  things  upon  me 
during  the  coach  journey.  They  are  filled  with  road 
dust  and  I  dislike  them  now. 

JOAN.  [Unfastening  the  cloak  and  untying  the  bonnet.] 
They  are  fresh  and  bright  for  I  brushed  and  shook  them 
myself  this  morning. 

CLARA.  [Relying  a  blue  ribbon  which  she  wears  in 
her  hair.]  I  have  taken  a  dislike  to  them.  See  here, 
Joan,  since  you  admire  them,  they  shall  be  yours. 

JOAN.  Mine  ?  The  French  bonnet  and  the  satin 
cloak  ? 

CLARA.  To  comfort  you  for  the  pains  of  the  country, 
Joan. 

JOAN.     0  mistress,   let  us   stop  a  moment  longer 


ACT  i  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  11 

in  this  quiet  place  so  that  I  may  slip  them  on  and  see 
how  they  become  me. 

CLARA.  As  you  will.  Listen,  that  is  the  cuckoo 
singing. 

JOAN.  {Throwing  off  her  cotton  bonnet  and  shawl  and 
dressing  herself  hastily  in  the  bonnet  and  cloak.]  O  what 
must  it  feel  like  to  be  a  grand  lady  and  wear  such  things 
from  dawn  to  bed  time. 

CLARA.     I  am  very  glad  to  be  without  them  for 
a  while.     How  good  the  air  feels  on  my  head. 
JOAN.     There,  mistress,  how  do  I  look  ? 
CLARA.    Very  nicely,  Joan.    So  nicely  that  if  you 
like,  you  may  keep  them  upon  you  for  the  remainder 
of  the  way. 

JOAN.  0  mistress,  may  I  really  do  so  ? 
CLARA.  Yes.  And  Joan,  do  you  go  onwards  to  the 
farm  by  the  quickest  path  which  is  through  this  wood 
and  across  the  high  road.  Anyone  will  shew  you  where 
the  place  is.  I  have  a  mind  to  wander  about  in  some 
of  the  meadows  which  I  remember.  But  I  will  join 
you  all  in  good  time. 

JOAN.  Very  well,  mistress.  If  I  set  off  in  a  few 
moments  it  will  do,  I  suppose  ?  I  should  just  like  to 
take  a  peep  at  myself  as  I  am  now,  in  the  little  glass 
which  you  carry  in  your  silk  bag. 

CLARA.  [Going  off.]  Don't  spend  too  much  time 
looking  at  what  will  be  shewn  you,  Joan. 

JOAN.     Never    fear,    mistress.     I'll    be    there    afore 

you,  if  I  have  to  run  all  the  way.       [CLARA  wanders  off. 

[ JOAN  sits  down  again  on  the  trunk  of  the  fallen 

tree.     She  opens  the  silken  bag,  draws  out 

a  small  hand    glass    and   looks   long  and 

steadily  at  her  own  reflection.     Then  she 

glances  furtively  around  and,   seeing  that 

she  is  quite  alone,  she  takes  a  small  powder 

box  from  the  bag  and  hastily  opening  it,  she 

gives  her  face  several  hurried  touches  with 

the  powder  puff. 

JOAN.     [Surveying  the  effect  in  the  glass.]    Just  to 


12  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  i 

take  off  the  brown  of  my  freckles.  Now  if  any  one  was 
to  come  upon  me  sitting  here  they  wouldn't  know  as  I 
was  other  than  a  real,  high  lady.  All  covered  with 
this  nice  cloak  as  I  be,  the  French  bonnet  on  my  head, 
and  powder  to  my  face,  who's  to  tell  the  difference  ? 
But  0 — these  must  be  hid  first. 

[She  perceives  her  cotton  bonnet  and  little  shawl 
on  the  ground.  She  hastily  rolls  them  up 
in  a  small  bundle  and  stuffs  them  into  the 
silken  bag.  Then  she  takes  up  the  glass 
and  surveys  herself  again. 

JOAN  .  How  should  I  act  now  if  some  grand  gentleman 
was  to  come  up  and  commence  talking  to  me  ?  Perhaps 
he  might  even  take  me  for  a  lady  of  title  in  these  fine 
clothes,  and  'twould  be  a  pity  to  have  to  undeceive 
him. 

[She  arranges  her  hair  a  little  under  the  bonnet 

and  then  lowers  the  lace  veil  over  her  face. 
[MILES  and  LUKE  come  slowly  up  behind  her. 
MILES  nudges  LUKE  with  his  elbow,  signing 
to  him  to  remain  where  he  is  whilst  he  steps 
forward  in  front  of  JOAN. 

MILES.  Pardon  me,  madam,  but  you  appear  to  have 
mistook  the  way.  Allow  me  to  set  you  on  the  right  path 
for  Ox  Lease. 

JOAN.  [Letting  the  mirror  fall  on  her  lap  and  speaking 
very  low.]  How  do  you  know  I  am  going  to  Ox  Lease, 
sir  ? 

MILES  You  see,  madam,  I  happen  to  know  that  a 
stylish  young  miss  from  town  is  expected  there  to-day. 
LUKE.  [Coming  forward  and  speaking  in  a  loud 
whisper.]  Now  Miles.  I  count  as  you  made  one  of 
the  biggest  blunders  of  the  time.  Our  young  lady  be 
journeying  along  of  her  servant  wench.  This  one  baint 
she. 

MILES.  If  we  have  made  a  small  error,  madam,  allow 
me  to  beg  your  pardon. 

JOAN.  Don't  mention  it,  sir.  Everyone  is  mistaken 
sometimes. 


ACT  i  BUSHES  AND    BRIARS  13 

LUKE.  Well,  I'm  powerful  sorry  if  we  have  given 
any  offence,  mam. 

JOAN.  [Looking  up  at  LUKE  with  sudden  boldness 
and  speaking  in  a  slow,  affected  voice.]  There's  nothing 
to  make  so  much  trouble  about,  sir. 

MILES.  Can  we  be  of  any  assistance  to  you,  madam  ? 
The  wood  may  appear  rather  dense  at  this  point. 

JOAN.  That  it  does.  Dense  and  dark — and  the  path- 
way !  My  goodness,  but  my  feet  have  never  travelled 
over  such  rough  ground  before. 

MILES.  That  I  am  sure  of,  madam.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  the  delicate  texture  of  your  shoes  has  been  sadly 
treated  by  our  stones  and  ruts. 

JOAN.  [Insensibly  pulling  her  skirts  over  her  thick 
walking  shoes.]  Well,  it's  vastly  different  to  London 
streets,  where  I  generally  take  exercise — at  least  when 
I'm  not  a-riding  in  the  coach. 

MILES.  The  country  is  but  a  sad  place  at  the  best, 
Miss  Clara  Spring. 

JOAN.  [Looking  round  furtively  and  speaking  in  a 
whisper.]  0,  how  did  you  guess  my — my  name  ? 

LUKE.    Come,  'twasn't  a  hard  matter,  that. 

MILES.    Missey  can  command  my  services. 

JOAN.  [Rallying,  and  standing  up.]  Then  gentlemen, 
do  you  walk  a  bit  of  the  road  with  me  and  we  could 
enjoy  some  conversation  as  we  go  along.  ' 

LUKE.  [Offering  his  arm.]  You  take  my  arm,  Miss 
Clara — do — . 

MILES.  [Also  offering  his  arm.]  I  shall  also  give 
myself  the  pleasure  of  supporting  Miss. 

JOAN.  [Taking  an  arm  of  each.]  0  thank  you, 
kindly  gentlemen.  Now  we  shall  journey  very  com- 
fortably, I  am  sure. 

[They  all  set  out  walking  in  the  direction  of  the 
farm. 


14  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  n 


ACT  II.— Scene  1. 

The  kitchen  of  Ox  Lease  Farm.  There  are  three  doors. 
One  opens  to  the  staircase,  one  to  the  garden  and  a 
third  into  the  back  kitchen.  At  a  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  EMILY  stands  ironing  some  net  window 
curtains.  JESSIE  and  ROBIN  lean  against  the  table 
watching  her.  By  the  open  doorway,  looking  out  on 
the  garden,  stands  THOMAS,  a  mug  of  cider  in  one 
hand  and  a  large  slice  of  bread  in  the  other.  As  he 
talks,  he  takes  alternate  drinks  and  bites. 

EMILY.  [Speaking  in  a  shrill,  angry  voice.}  Now 
Thomas,  suppose  you  was  to  take  that  there  bread  a 
step  further  away  and  eat  it  in  the  garden,  if  eat  it  you 
must,  instead  of  crumbling  it  all  over  my  clean  floor. 

THOMAS.  Don't  you  be  so  testy,  Emily.  The  dogs'll 
lick  the  crumbs  up  as  clean  as  you  like  presently. 

EMELY.  Dogs  ?  I'd  like  to  see  the  dog  as'll  shew 
its  nose  in  here  to-day  when  I've  got  it  all  cleaned  up 
against  the  coming  of  fine  young  madam. 

THOMAS.  {Finishing  his  bread  and  looking  wistfully 
at  his  empty  hand.]  The  little  maid'll  take  a  brush  and 
sweep  up  her  daddy's  crumbs,  now,  won't  her  ? 

EMILY.  I'll  give  it  to  any  one  who  goes  meddling 
in  my  brush  cupboard  now  that  I've  just  put  all  in  order 
against  the  prying  and  nozzling  of  the  good-for-nothing 
baggage  what's  coming  along  with  your  sister. 

ROBIN.    What's  baggage,  Mother  ? 

EMILY.  [Sharply.]  Never  you  mind.  Get  and  take 
your  elbow  off  my  ironing  sheet. 

JESSIE.  [Looking  at  her  father.]  I  count  as  you'd 
like  a  piece  more  bread,  Dad  ? 

THOMAS.  Well,  I  don't  say  but  'twouldn't  come 
amiss.  'Tis  hungry  work  in  th'  hayfield.  And  us  be 
to  go  without  our  dinners  this  day,  isn't  that  so,  Emily  ? 

EMELY.  [Slamming  down  her  iron  on  the  stand.]  If 
I've  told  you  once,  I've  told  you  twenty  times,  'twas  but 


ACT  ii  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  15 

the  one  pair  of  hands  as  I  was  gived  at  birth.     Now,  what 
have  you  got  to  say  against  that,  Thomas  ? 

THOMAS.     [Sheepishly.]    I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 

EMILY.  And  if  so  be  as  I'm  to  clean  and  wash 
and  cook,  and  run,  and  wait,  and  scour,  and  mend,  for 
them  lazy  London  minxes,  other  folk  must  go  without 
hot  cooking  at  mid-day. 

THOMAS.  [Faintly.]  'Twasn't  nothing  cooked,  like. 
'Twas  a  bit  of  bread  as  I  did  ask  for. 

JESSIE.  [Getting  up.]  I'll  get  it  for  you,  Dad.  I 
know  where  the  loaf  bides  and  the  knife  too.  I'll  cut 
you,  0  such  a  large  piece. 

EMILY.  [Seizing  her  roughly  by  the  hand.]  You'll 
do  nothing  of  the  sort.  You'll  take  this  here  cold  iron 
into  Maggie  and  you'll  bring  back  one  that  is  hot. 
How  am  I  to  get  these  curtains  finished  and  hung  and 
all,  by  the  time  the  dressed  up  parrots  come  sailing  in, 
I'd  like  to  know. 

[JESSIE  runs  away  with  the  iron. 

THOMAS.  [Setting  down  his  mug  and  coming  to  the 
table.]  I'd  leave  the  windows  bare  if  it  was  me,  Emily. 
The  creeping  rose  do  form  the  suitablest  shade  for  they, 
to  my  thinking. 

EMILY.  That  shews  how  much  you  know  about  it, 
Thomas.  No,  take  your  hands  from  off  my  table. 
Do  you  think  as  I  wants  dirty  thumbs  shewing  all  over 
the  clean  net  what  I've  washed  and  dried  and  ironed, 
and  been  a-messing  about  with  since  'twas  light  ? 

THOMAS.  Now  that's  what  I  be  trying  for  to  say. 
There's  no  need  for  you  to  go  and  work  yourself  into 
the  fidgets,  Emily,  because  of  little  Clara  coming  back. 
Home's  home.  And  'twon't  be  neither  the  curtains  nor 
the  hot  dinner  as  Clara  will  be  thinking  of  when  her 
steps  into  th'  old  place  once  more. 

JESSIE.  [Rimning  back  with  the  hot  iron  which  she 
sets  down  on  the  table.]  What  will  Aunt  Clara  be  think- 
ing of  then,  Dad  ? 

THOMAS.  [Shy  and  abashed  under  a  withering  glance 
from  EMILY  who  has  taken  up  the  iron  and  is  slamming 


16  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  n 

it  down  on  the  net.]  Her'll  remember,  very  like,  how 
'twas  when  her  left — some  fourteen  year  ago.  And 
her'll  have  her  eyes  on  Gran'ma's  chair,  what's  empty. 

ROBIN.  I  should  be  thinking  of  the  hot  fowl  and 
sparrow  grass  what's  for  dinner. 

THOMAS.  And  her'll  look  up  to  th'  old  clock,  and 
different  things  what's  still  in  their  places.  The  grand 
parts  where  she  have  been  bred  up  will  be  forgot. 
'Twill  be  only  home  as  her'll  think  on. 

EMILY.     I  haven't  patience  to  listen  to  such  stuff. 

THOMAS.  [After  a  pause.']  I  count  that  'tisn't 
likely  as  a  young  woman  what's  been  left  riches  as 
Clara  have,  would  choose  to  make  her  home  along  of 
such  as  we  for  always,  like. 

EMILY.  We  have  perches  and  plenty  of  them  for 
barn  door  poultry,  but  when  it  comes  to  roosting 
spangled  plumes  and  fancy  fowls,  no  thank  you,  Thomas, 
I'm  not  going  to  do  it. 

ROBIN.  Do  let  us  get  and  roost  some  fancy  fowls, 
Mother. 

JESSIE.    What  are  spangled  plumes,  Mother  ? 

EMILY.  [Viciously.]  You'll  see  plenty  of  them 
presently. 

ROBIN.  Will  Aunt  Clara  bring  the  fowls  along  of 
she  ? 

[A   slight  pause    during    which   EMILY   irons 
vigorously. 

EMILY.  [As  she  irons.]  Some  folk  have  all  the  honey. 
It  do  trickle  from  the  mouths  of  them  and  down  to  the 
ground. 

ROBIN.  Has  Aunt  Clara  got  her  mouth  very  sticky, 
then? 

EMILY.  And  there  be  others  what  are  born  to  naught 
but  crusts  and  the  vinegar. 

JESSIE.  Like  you,  Mother— Least,  that's  what 
Maggie  said  this  morning. 

EMILY.    What's  that  ? 

JESSIE.  That  'twas  in  the  vinegar  jar  as  your  tongue 
had  growed,  Mother. 


ACT  n  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  17 

EMILY.  I'll  learn  that  wench  to  keep  her  thoughts 
to  herself  if  she  can't  fetch  them  out  respectful  like. 
[Shouting.]  Mag,  come  you  here  this  minute — what 
are  you  after  now,  I'd  like  to  know,  you  ugly,  idle  piece 
of  mischief  ? 

[MAGGIE,  wiping  a  plate  comes  from  the  back 
kitchen. 

MAGGIE.     Was  you  calling,  mistress  ? 

EMILY.  What's  this  you've  got  saying  to  Miss  Jessie, 
I  should  like  to  know. 

JESSIE.  [Running  to  MAGGIE  and  laying  her  hand  on 
her  arm.]  Dear  Maggie,  'tis  only  what  you  did  tell 
about  poor  mother's  tongue  being  in  the  vinegar  jar. 

MAGGIE.     0  Miss  Jessie. 

EMILY.  Hark  you  here,  my  girl — if  'twasn't  hay  time 
you  should  bundle  up  your  rags  and  off  with  you  this 
minute.  But  as  'tis  awkward  being  short  of  a  pair  of 
hands  just  now,  you'll  bide  a  week  or  two  and  then  you'll 
get  outside  of  my  door  with  no  more  character  to  you 
nor  what  I  took  you  with. 

THOMAS.  Come,  come  Emily.  The  girl's  a  good  one 
for  to  work,  and  that  she  is. 

EMILY.  Be  quiet,  Thomas.  This  is  my  business, 
and  you'll  please  to  keep  your  words  till  they're  wanted. 

MAGGIE.  0  mistress,  I  didn't  mean  no  harm,  I 
didn't. 

EMILY.     I  don't  want  no  words  nor  no  tears  neither. 

MAGGIE.  [Beginning  to  cry  loudly.]  I  be  the  only 
girl  as  have  stopped  with  you  more  nor  a  month,  I  be. 
T'others  wouldn't  bide  a  day,  some  of  them. 

EMILY.  Be  quiet.  Back  to  your  work  with  you. 
And  when  the  hay  is  all  carried,  off  with  you,  ungrateful 
minx,  to  where  you  came  from. 

JESSIE.     O  let  us  keep  her  always,  Mother,  she's  kind. 

ROBIN.  Don't  you  cry,  Mag.  I'll  marry  you  when 
I'm  a  big  man  like  Daddy. 

THOMAS.  Harken  to  them,  Emily !  She's  been  a 
good  maid  to  the  children.  I'd  not  part  with  any  one 
so  hasty,  if  'twasv|me.  . 


18  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  n 

EMILY.  [Very  angrily.']  When  I  want  your  opinion, 
Thomas,  I'll  ask  for  it.  Suppose  you  was  to  go  out  and 
see  after  something  which  you  do  understand. 

THOMAS.  0  I'll  go  down  to  the  field  fast  enough,  1 
can  tell  you.  'Twas  only  being  hungered  as  drove  me 
into  the  hornets'  nest,  as  you  might  say. 

EMILY.     [Ironing  fiercely. 1    What's  that  ? 

THOMAS.  Nothing.  I  did  only  say  as  I  was  a-going 
back  to  the  field  when  George  do  come  home. 

EMILY.  There  again.  Did  you  ever  know  the  man 
to  be  so  slow  before.  I  warrant  as  he  have  gone  drinking 
or  mischiefing  down  at  the  Spotted  Cow  instead  of 
coming  straight  home  with  they  chicken. 

THOMAS.  Nay,  nay.  George  is  not  the  lad  to  do  a 
thing  like  that.  A  quieter  more  well  bred  up  lad  nor 
George  never  trod  in  shoes. 

EMILY  [Glancing  at  MAGGIE.]  What  are  you  tossing 
your  head  like  that  for,  Maggie  ?  Please  to  recollect  as 
you're  a  lazy,  good-for-nothing  little  slut  of  a  maid 
servant,  and  not  a  circus  pony  all  decked  out  for  the  show. 

JESSIE.  Maggie's  fond  of  Georgie.  And  Georgie's 
kind  to  Mag. 

MAGGIE.  [Fearfully. ~\  O  don't,  Miss  Jessie,  for 
goodness  sake. 

EMILY.  [  Viciously.]  I'll  soon  put  an  end  to  anything 
in  that  quarter. 

THOMAS.  Now,  Emily — take  it  quiet.  Why,  we 
shall  have  Clara  upon  us  before  us  knows  where  we  are. 

EMILY.  [Folding  the  curtains.]  I'll  settle  her  too,  if 
she  comes  before  I'm  ready  for  her. 

ROBIN.  [Pointing  through  the  open.]  There's  George, 
coming  with  the  basket. 

[GEORGE  comes  into  the  room.  He  carefully 
rubs  his  feet  on  the  mat  as  he  enters.  Then 
he  advances  to  the  table.  MAGGIE  dries  her 
eyes  with  the  back  of  her  hand.  JESSIE  is 
standing  with  her  arm  in  MAGGIE'S. 

EMILY.  Well,  and  where  have  you  been  all  this  while, 
I'd  like  to  know  ? 


ACT  n  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  19 

GEORGE.    To  Brook  Farm,  mam,  and  home. 

EMILY.  You've  been  up  to  some  mischief  on  the  way, 
I  warrant. 

THOMAS.     Come,  Emily. 

[GEORGE  looks  calmly  into  EMILY'S  face.    Then 
his  gaze  travels  leisurely  round  the  room. 

GEORGE.  I  was  kept  waiting  while  they  did  pluck 
and  dress  the  chicken. 

EMILY.  [Lifting  the  cloth  covering  the  basket,  and 
looking  within  it.]  I'd  best  have  gone  myself.  Of  all 
the  thick-headed  men  I  ever  did  see,  you're  the  thickest. 
Upon  my  word  you  are. 

GEORGE.     What's  wrong  now,  mistress  ? 

EMILY.  'Taint  chicken  at  all  what  you've  been  and 
fetched  me. 

GEORGE.  I'll  be  blowed  if  I  do  know  what  'tis 
then. 

EMILY.  If  I'd  been  given  a  four  arms  and  legs  at 
birth  same  as  th'  horses,  I'd  have  left  a  pair  of  them  at 
home  and  gone  and  done  the  job  myself,  I  would.  And 
then  you  should  see  what  I'd  have  brought  back. 

GEORGE.  You  can't  better  what  I've  got  here. 
From  the  weight  it  might  be  two  fat  capons.  So  it 
might. 

EMILY.  [Seizing  the  basket  roughly.]  Here,  Mag, 
off  into  the  pantry  with  them.  A  couple  of  skinny  frogs 
from  out  the  road  ditch  would  have  done  as  well.  And 
you,  Jess,  upstairs  with  these  clean  curtains  and  lay 
them  careful  on  the  bed.  I'll  put  them  to  the  windows 
later. 

THOMAS.  George,  my  boy,  did  you  meet  with  any 
one  on  the  way,  like  ? 

EMILY.  You'd  best  ask  no  questions  if  you  don't 
want  to  be  served  with  lies,  Thomas. 

GEORGE.  [Throwing  a  glance  of  disdain  at  EMILY.] 
Miles  Hooper  and  Farmer  Jenner  was  taking  the  air 
'long  of  one  another  in  the  wood,  master. 

THOMAS.  Miles  Hooper  and  Luke  a-taking  of  the  air, 
and  of  a  weekday  morning  ! 


20  BUSHES   AND   BRIARS  ACT  n 

GEORGE.  That  they  was,  master.  And  they  did 
stop  I — 

EMILY.  Ah,  now  you've  got  it,  Thomas.  Now  we 
shall  know  why  George  was  upon  the  road  the  best  part 
of  the  day  and  me  kept  waiting  for  the  chicken. 

GEORGE.  [Steadily.]  Sunday  clothes  to  the  back  of 
both  of  them.  And,  when  was  Miss  Clara  expected  up 
at  home. 

THOMAS.  Ah,  'tis  a  fair  commotion  all  over  these 
parts  already,  I  warrant.  There  wasn't  nothing  else 
spoke  of  in  market  last  time,  but  how  as  sister  Clara 
with  all  her  money  was  to  come  home. 

JESSIE.  [Coming  back.]  I've  laid  the  curtains  on  the 
bed,  shall  I  gather  some  flowers  and  set  them  on  the 
table,  mother  ? 

EMILY.  I'd  like  to  see  you  !  Flowers  in  the  bed- 
room ?  I  never  heard  tell  of  such  senseless  goings  on. 
What  next,  I'd  like  to  know  ? 

GEORGE.  Miss  Clara  always  did  fill  a  mug  of  clover 
blooms  and  set  it  aside  of  her  bed  when  her  was  a  little 
thing — so  high. 

JESSIE.  Do  you  remember  our  fine  aunt,  then, 
Georgie  ? 

GEORGE.    I  remembers  Miss  Clara  right  enough. 

EMILY.  Don't  you  flatter  yourself,  George,  as  such  a 
coxsy  piece  of  town  goods  will  trouble  herself  to  re- 
member you. 

THOMAS.  The  little  maid  had  a  good  enough  heart 
to  her  afore  she  was  took  away  from  us. 

JESSIE.  Do  you  think  our  aunt  Clara  has  growed 
into  a  coxsy  town  lady,  George  ? 

GEORGE.    No,  I  do  not,  Miss  Jessie. 

EMILY.  [Beginning  to  stir  about  noisily  as  she  sets 
the  kitchen  in  order.]  Get  off  with  you  to  the  field, 
Thomas,  can't  you.  I've  had  enough  to  do  as  'tis 
without  a  great  hulking  man  standing  about  and  taking 
up  all  the  room. 

THOMAS.  Come,  George,  us'll  clear  out  down  to  th' 
hay  field,  and  snatch  a  bite  as  we  do  go. 


ACT  ii  BUSHES   AND    BRIARS  21 

GEORGE.    That's  it,  master. 

EMILY.  [Calling  angrily  after  them.]  There's  no 
dinner  for  no  one  to-day,  I  tell  you. 

[THOMAS  and  GEORGE  go  out  of  the  back  kitchen 

door.     EMILY    begins    putting    the    irons 

away,  folding   up   the   ironing   sheet   and 

setting  the  chairs  back  against  the  wall. 

[JESSIE  and  ROBIN,  from  their  places  at  the 

table,  watch  her  intently. 

EMILY.  [As  she  moves  about.]  'Twouldn't  be  half 
the  upset  if  the  wench  was  coming  by  herself,  but  to 
have  a  hussy  of  a  serving  maid  sticking  about  in  the 
rooms  along  of  us,  is  more  nor  I  can  stand. 

[She  begins  violently  to  sweep  up  the  hearth. 
[Steps  are  heard  outside. 
JESSIE.     Hark,  what's  that,  mother  ? 
EMILY.     I'll  give  it  to  any  one  who  wants  to  come  in 
here. 

JESSIE.  [Running  to  the  open  door.]  They're  coming 
up  the  path.  'Tis  our  fine  auntie  and  two  grand  gentle- 
men either  side  of  she. 

ROBIN.  [Running  also  to  the  door.]  0  I  want  to 
look  on  her  too. 

EMILY.  [Putting  the  broom  in  a  corner.]  'Tis  no 
end  to  the  vexation.  But  she'll  have  to  wait  on  herself. 
I've  no  time  to  play  the  dancing  bear.  And  that  I've 
not. 

[JoAN,    between    MILES    HOOPER   and   LUKE 

JENNER,  comes  up  to  the  open  door. 
MILES.    [To  Jessie.]    See  here,  my  little  maid,  what'll 
you  give  Mister  Hooper  for  bringing  this  pretty  lady 
safe  up  to  the  farm  ? 

JESSIE.  I  know  who  'tis  you've  brought.  'Tis  my 
Aunt  Clara. 

LUKE.  You're  a  smart  little  wench,  if  ever  there 
was  one. 

ROBIN.  I  know  who  'tis,  too,  'cause  of  the  spangled 
plumes  in  the  bonnet  of  she.  Mother  said  as  there'd 
be  some. 


22  BUSHES   AND    BRIARS  ACT  n 

EMILY.  [Coming  forward.]  Well,  Clara,  if  'twas  by 
the  morning  coach  as  you  did  come,  you're  late.  If 
'twas  by  th'  evening  one,  you're  too  soon  by  a  good  few 
hours. 

MILES.  Having  come  by  the  morning  coach,  Miss 
Clara  had  the  pleasant  fancy  to  stroll  here  through  the 
woodlands,  Missis  Spring. 

LUKE.  Ah,  and  'twas  lost  on  the  way  as  we  did  find 
her,  like  a  strayed  sheep. 

MILES.  And  ours  has  been  the  privilege  to  bring  the 
fair  wanderer  safely  home. 

EMILY.  [Scornfully  looking  JOAN  over  from  head  to 
foot.]  Where's  that  serving  wench  of  yours  got  to, 
Clara  ? 

MILES.  Our  young  missy  had  a  wish  for  solitude. 
She  sent  her  maid  on  by  another  road. 

EMILY.  The  good-for-nothing  hussy.  I  warrant  as 
she  have  found  something  of  mischief  for  her  idle  hands 
to  do. 

MILES.  If  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  our  Miss  Clara 
is  somewhat  fatigued  by  her  long  stroll.  London  young 
ladies  are  very  delicately  framed,  Missis  Spring. 

EMILY.  [Pointing  ungraciously.]  There's  chairs  right 
in  front  of  you. 

[MILES  and  LUKE  lead  JOAN  forward,  placing 
her  in  an  armchair  with  every  attention. 
JOAN  sinks  into  it,  and,  taking  a  little  fan 
from  the  silken  bag  on  her  arm,  begins  to 
fan  herself  violently. 

EMILY.  [Watching  her  with  fierce  contempt.]  Maybe 
as  you'd  like  my  kitchen  wench  to  come  and  do  that  for 
you,  Clara,  seeing  as  your  fine  maid  is  gadding  about 
the  high  roads  instead  of  minding  what  it  concerns  her 
to  attend  to. 

JOAN.  [Faintly.]  0  no,  thank  you.  The  day  is 
rather  warm — that's  all. 

EMILY.     Warm,  I  should  think  it  was  warm  in  under 
of  that  great  white  curtain. 
JESSIE.    Aunt  Clara,  I'm  Jessie. 


ACT  ii  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  23 

JOAN.     Are  you,  my  dear  ? 

ROBIN.     And  I'm  Robin. 

MILES.  Now,  I  wager,  if  you  are  both  good  little 
children,  this  pretty  lady  will  give  you  each  a  kiss. 

JOAN.     [Faintly.]    To  be  sure  I  will. 

JESSIE.  Then  you'll  have  to  take  off  that  white  thing 
from  your  face.  'Tis  like  what  mother  do  spread  over 
the  currant  bushes  to  keep  the  birds  from  the  fruit. 

[Jo AN  slowly  raises  her  veil,  showing  her  face. 

JESSIE.    Shall  I  give  you  a  kiss,  Aunt  ? 

EMILY.  I'd  be  careful  if  I  was  you,  Jess.  Fine  ladies 
be  brittle  as  fine  china. 

JESSIE.     0  I'll  kiss  her  very  lightly,  Mother. 

[She  goes  up  to  JOAN  and  kisses  her,  ROBIN 
then  reaches  up  his  face  and  JOAN  kisses 
him. 

ROBIN.  [Rubbing  his  mouth.]  The  flour  do  come 
from  Aunt  same  as  it  does  from  a  new  loaf. 

MILES.  [To  JOAN.]  You  must  pardon  these  ignorant 
little  country  brats,  Miss  Clara. 

JOAN.     0  there's  nothing  amiss,  thank  you. 

EMILY.  Amiss,  who  said  as  there  was  ?  When  folks 
what  can  afford  to  lodge  at  the  inn  do  come  down  and 
fasten  theirselves  on  the  top  of  poor  people,  they 
must  take  things  as  they  do  find  them  and  not  start 
grumbling  at  the  first  set  off. 

LUKE.  There,  there,  Missis  Spring.  There  wasn't 
naught  said  about  grumbling.  But  Miss  Clara  have 
come  a  smartish  long  distance,  and  it  behoves  us  all  as 
she  should  find  summat  of  a  welcome  at  the  end  of  her 
journey,  like. 

MILES.  [Aside  to  JOAN.]  How  strange  this  country 
tongue  must  fall  on  your  ears,  Miss  Clara  ! 

JOAN.  I  don't  understand  about  half  of  what  they 
say. 

EMILY.  [Overhearing  her.]  O,  you  don't,  don't  you. 
Well,  Clara,  I  was  always  one  for  plain  words,  and  I  say 
'tis  a  pity  when  folks  do  get  above  the  position  to  which 
they  was  bred,  and  for  all  the  fine  satins  and  plumes 


24  BUSHES   AND    BRIARS  ACT  n 

upon  you,  the  body  what's  covered  by  them  belongs  to 
Clara  Spring,  what's  sister  to  Thomas.  And  all  the 
world  knows  what  Thomas  is— A  poor,  mean  spirited, 
humble  born  man  with  but  two  coats  to  the  back  of  him, 
and  with  not  a  thought  to  the  mind  of  him  which  is  not 
foolishness.  And  I  judge  from  by  what  they  be  in  birth, 
and  not  by  the  bags  of  gold  what  have  been  left  them 
by  any  old  madams  in  their  dotage.  So  now  you  see 
how  I  takes  it  all  and  you  and  me  can  start  fair,  like. 

JOAN.  [To  LUKE.]  0  Mister — Mister  Jenner,  I  feel 
so  faint. 

MILES.  [Taking  her  fan.]  Allow  me.  [He  begins  to 
fan  her.]  I  assure  you  she  means  nothing  by  it.  It's 
her  way.  You  see,  she  knows  no  better. 

LTJKE.  I'd  fetch  out  summat  for  her  to  eat  if  I  was 
you,  missis.  'Tis  famished  as  the  poor  young  maid 
must  be. 

EMILY.  She  should  have  come  when  'twas  meal 
time  then.  I  don't  hold  with  bites  nor  drinks  in  between 
whiles. 

JOAN.  0  I'm  dying  for  a  glass  of  milk — or  water 
would  do  as  well. 

MILES.  My  dear  young  lady — anything  to  oblige. 
[Turning  to  Jessie.]  Come,  my  little  maid,  see  if  you 
can't  make  yourself  useful  in  bringing  a  tray  of  refresh- 
ment for  your  auntie.  And  you  [turning  to  Robin]  trot 
off  and  help  sister. 

EMILY.  Not  if  I  know  it.  Stop  where  you  are,  Jess. 
Robin,  you  dare  to  move.  If  Clara  wants  to  eat  and 
drink  I'm  af eared  she  must  wait  till  supper  time. 

ROBIN.  There  be  chicken  and  sparrow  grass  for 
supper,  Aunt. 

JESSIE.     And  a  great  pie  of  gooseberries. 

JOAN.  (Faintly.]  O  I  couldn't  touch  a  mouthful  of 
food,  don't  speak  to  me  about  it. 

ROBIN.  I  likes  talking  of  dinner.  After  I've  done 
eating  of  it,  I  likes  next  best  to  talk  about  it. 

LUKE .  See  here,  missis .  Let's  have  a  glass  of  summat 
cool  for  Miss  Clara. 


ACT  n  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  25 

EMILY.  [Calling  angrily.]  Maggie,  Maggie,  where 
are  you,  you  great  lazy-boned  donkey  ? 

MAGGIE.  [Comes  in  from  the  back  kitchen,  her  apron 
held  to  her  eyes.]  Did  you  call  me,  mistress  ? 

EMILY.  Get  up  a  bucket  of  water  from  the  well 
Master's  sister  wants  a  drink. 

MAGGIE.  [Between  sobs.]  Shall  I  bring  it  in  the 
bucket,  or  would  the  young  lady  like  it  in  a  jug  ? 

EMILY.  [With  exasperation.]  There's  no  end  to 
the  worriting  that  other  folks  do  make. 

JESSIE.     Let  me  go  and  help  poor  Maggie,  mother. 

ROBIN.  [To  JOAN.]  Do  you  know  what  Maggie's 
crying  for,  Aunt  Clara  ? 

JOAN.     I'm  sure  I  don't,  little  boy. 

ROBIN.  'Tis  because  she's  got  to  go.  Mother's 
sent  her  off.  'Twas  what  she  said  of  mother's  tongue. 

EMILY.  [Roughly  taking  hold  of  ROBIN  and  JESSIE.] 
Come  you  along  with  me,  you  ill-behaved  little  varmints. 
'Tis  the  back  kitchen  and  the  serving  maid  as  is  the 
properest  place  for  such  as  you.  I'll  not  have  you  bide 
'mongst  the  company  no  longer.  [She  goes  out  with 
the  children  and  followed  by  MAGGIE.] 

[Directly  they  have  left  the  room  JOAN,  whose 
manner  has  been  nervously  shrinking,  seems 
to  recover  herself  and  she  assumes  a  languid, 
artificial  air,  badly  imitating  the  ways  of 
a  lady  of  fashion. 

JOAN.  [Fanning  herself  with  her  handkerchief  and 
her  fan.]  Well,  I  never  did  meet  with  such  goings  on 
before. 

MILES.  You  and  I  know  how  people  conduct  them- 
selves in  London,  Miss  Clara.  We  must  not  expect 
to  find  the  same  polite  ways  down  here. 

LUKE.  Come  now,  'tisn't  so  bad  as  all  that  with  we. 
There  baint  many  what  has  the  tongue  of  mistress 
yonder. 

JOAN.     I'm  quite  unused  to  such  people. 

LUKE.  And  yet,  Miss  Clara,  'tisn't  as  though  they 
were  exactly  strangers  to  you  like. 


26  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  n 

JOAN.     They  feel  as  good  as  strangers  to  me,  any  way. 

MILES.  Ah,  how  well  I  understand  that,  Miss. 
'Tisn't  very  often  as  we  lay  a  length  of  fine  silken  by 
the  side  of  unbleached  woollen  at  my  counters. 

JOAN.  I  could  go  through  with  it  better  perhaps, 
if  I  didn't  feel  so  terrible  faint  and  sinking. 

LUKE.  [Going  to  the  back  kitchen  door.]  Here, 
Maggie,  stir  yourself  up  a  bit.  The  lady  is  near  fainting, 
I  do  count. 

JESSIE.  [Runs  in  with  a  tray  on  which  is  a  jug  of 
water  and  a  glass.]  I'm  bringing  the  drink  for  Aunt, 
Mr.  Jenner.  Maggie's  crying  ever  so  badly,  and 
Mother's  sent  her  upstairs  to  wash  her  face  and  put 
her  hair  tidy. 

[JESSIE  puts  the  tray  on  the  table  near  to  where 
JOAN  is  sitting.  MILES  HOOPER  busies 
himself  in  pouring  out  a  glass  of  water 
and  in  handing  it  with  a  great  deal  of 
exaggerated  deference  to  JOAN. 

JOAN.     [Drinking.]    Such  a  coarse  glass  ! 

MILES.  Ah,  you  must  let  me  send  you  up  one  from 
my  place  during  your  stay  here.  Who  could  expect  a 
lady  to  drink  from  such  a  thing  as  that  ? 

JOAN.  [Laying  aside  the  glass.]  There's  a  taste  of 
mould  in  the  water  too. 

JESSIE.  It's  fresh.  Mother  drawed  it  up  from  the 
well,  she  did. 

JOAN.  [Looking  disdainfully  round  on  the  room.] 
Such  a  strange  room.  So  very  common. 

LUKE.  Nay,  you  mustn't  judge  of  the  house  by  this. 
Don't  you  recollect  the  parlour  yonder,  with  the  stuffed 
birds  and  the  chiney  cupboard  ? 

JOAN.  [Looking  round  again.]  Such  an  old-fashioned 
place  as  this  I  never  did  see.  'Tis  a  low  sort  of  room 
too,  no  carpet  on  the  boards  nor  cloth  to  the  table, 
nor  nothing  elegant. 

MILES.  Ah,  we  find  the  mansions  in  town  very 
different  to  a  country  farm  house,  don't  we  Miss  ? 

JOAN.     I  should  think  we  did,  Mister  Hooper.    Why, 


ACT  n  BUSHES    AND   BRIARS  27 

look  at  that  great  old  wooden  chair  by  the  hearth  ? 
Don't  it  look  un-stylish,  upon  my  word,  with  no 
cushions  to  it  nor  nothing. 

JESSIE.  [Coming  quite  close  to  JOAN  and  looking 
straight  into  her  face.]  That's  great  gran'ma's  chair, 
what  Dad  said  you'd  be  best  pleased  for  to  see. 

[JoAN  looks  very  confused  and  begins  to  fan 
herself  hastily. 

JESSIE.  And  th'  old  clock's  another  thing  what  Dad 
did  say  as  you'd  look  upon. 

JOAN.     0  the  old  clock's  well  enough,  to  be  sure. 

JESSIE.  I  did  want  to  gather  a  nosegay  of 
flowers  to  set  in  your  bedroom,  Aunt,  but  Mother,  she 
said,  no. 

JOAN.  [Languidly.]  I  must  say  I  don't  see  any 
flowers  blooming  here  that  I  should  particular  care 
about  having  in  my  apartment. 

JESSIE.  And  Father  said  as  how  you'd  like  to  smell 
the  blossoms  in  the  garden.  And  Georgie  told  as  how 
you  did  use  to  gather  the  clover  blooms  when  you 
was  a  little  girl  and  set  them  by  you  where  you  did 
sleep. 

JOAN.  [Crossly.]  O  run  away,  child,  I'm  tired 
to  death  with  all  this  chatter.  How  would  you  like 
to  be  so  pestered  after  such  a  travel  over  the  rough 
country  roads  as  I  have  had  ? 

LUKE.  Now,  my  little  maid,  off  you  go.  Take  back 
the  tray  to  Mother,  and  be  careful  as  you  don't  break 
the  glasses  on  it. 

JESSIE.  [Taking  up  the  tray.]  I'm  off  to  play  in  the 
hay  field  along  of  Robin,  then. 

[LuKE  opens  the  back  kitchen  door  for  her 
and  she  goes  out.  Meanwhile  MILES  has 
taken  up  the  fan  and  is  fanning  JOAN,  who 
leans  back  in  her  chair  with  closed  eyes 
and  exhausted  look. 

LUKE.  [Coming  to  her  side  and  sitting  down.]  'Twill 
seem  more  homelike  when  Thomas  do  come  up  from 
the  field. 


28  BUSHES   AND    BRIARS  ACT  n 

JOAN.  [Raising  herself  and  looking  at  him.]  You 
mustn't  trouble  about  me,  Mister  Jenner.  I  shall  be 
quite  comfortable  presently. 

[The  back  door  opens  and  MAGGIE  comes  hurriedly 
in. 

MAGGIE.  Please,  mistress,  there  be  a  young  person 
a-coming  through  the  rick  yard. 

JOAN.     [Nervously.]    A  young  person  ? 

MAGGIE.  Mistress  be  at  the  gooseberries  a-gather- 
ing  of  them,  and  the  children  be  gone  off  to  th'  hay 
field. 

MILES.  'Tis  very  likely  your  serving  maid, 
dear  Miss.  Shall  I  fetch  the  young  woman  in  to 
you  ? 

JOAN.    My  maid,  did  you  say  ?     My  maid  ? 

LUKE.     Ah,  depend  on  it,  'tis  she. 

MAGGIE.  The  young  person  do  have  all  the  looks 
of  a  serving  wench,  mistress.  She  be  tramping  over 
the  yard  with  naught  but  a  white  handkerchief  over 
the  head  of  she  and  a  poking  into  most  of  the  styes  and 
a-calling  of  the  geese  and  poultry. 

LTTKE.  That's  her,  right  enough.  Bring  her  in, 
Mag. 

JOAN.  [Agitatedly.]  No,  no — I  mean — I  want  to 
see  her  particular — and  alone.  I'll  go  to  meet  her. 
You — gentlemen — 

[MAGGIE    goes   slowly   into   the   back    kitchen. 

MILES.  [Placing  a  chair  for  JOAN.]  Delicate  ladies 
should  not  venture  out  into  the  heat  at  this  time  of 
day. 

JOAN.  [With  sudden  resolution  ignoring  the  chair 
and  going  to  the  window.]  Then,  do  you  two  kind 
gentlemen  take  a  stroll  in  the  garden.  I  have  need  of 
the  services  of  my — my  young  woman.  But  when 
she  has  put  me  in  order  after  the  dusty  journey,  I  shall 
ask  you  to  be  good  enough  to  come  back  and  while  away 
an  hour  for  me  in  this  sad  place. 

MILES.  [Fervently.]  Anything  to  oblige  a  lady, 
miss. 


ACT  ii  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  29 

LUKE.  That's  right.  Us '11  wait  while  you  do  lay 
aside  your  bonnet. 

[MiLES  and  LUKE  go  out  through  the  garden 
door.  MILES,  turning  to  bow  low  before 
he  disappears.  JOAN  stands  as  though 
distraught  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
Through  the  open  door  of  the  back  kitchen 
the  voices  of  CLARA  and  MAGGIE  are 
distinctly  heard. 

CLARA.     Is  no  one  at  home  then  ? 
MAGGIE.    Ah,  go  you  straight  on  into  the  kitchen, 
you'll  find  whom  you  be  searching  for  in  there.     I'd 
take  and  shew  you  in  myself  only  I'm  wanted  down 
to  th'  hayfield  now. 

CLARA.  Don't  put  yourself  to  any  trouble  about  me. 
I  know  my  way. 

[CLARA  comes  into  the  kitchen.    She  has  tied 
a  white  handkerchief  over  her  head,   and 
carries  a  bunch  of  wild  flowers  in  her  hands. 
CLARA.    Still  in  your  cloak  and  bonnet !    Why,  I 
thought  by  now  you  would  have  unpacked  our  things 
and  made  yourself  at  home. 

JOAN.  [Joining  her  hands  supplicatingly  and  coming 
towards  CLARA,  speaking  almost  in  a  whisper.]  O 
mistress,  you'll  never  guess  what  I've  been  and  done. 
But  'twasn't  all  my  fault  at  the  commencement. 

CLARA.  [Looking  her  over  searchingly.]  You  do  look 
very  disturbed,  Joan,  what  has  happened  ? 

JOAN.     'Twas    the    fine    bonnet    and    cloak,    mam. 
'Twas  they  as  did  it. 
CLARA.     Did  what  ? 

JOAN.     Put  the  thought  into  my  head,  like. 
CLARA.    What  thought  ? 

JOAN.     As  how  'twould  feel  to  be  a  real  grand  lady, 
like  you,  mistress. 
CLARA.    What  then,  Joan  ? 

JOAN.     So  I  began  to  pretend  all  to  myself  as  how 
that  I  was  one,  mistress. 
CLARA.     Come,  tell  me  all. 


30  BUSHES    AND   BRIARS  ACT  n 

JOAN.  And  whilst  I  was  sat  down  upon  that  fallen 
tree,  and  sort  of  pretending  to  myself,  the  two  gentlemen 
came  along. 

CLARA.     What  gentlemen  ? 

JOAN.  Gentlemen  as  was  after  courting  you, 
mistress. 

CLARA.     Courting  me  ? 

JOAN.  Yes,  and  they  commenced  speaking  so  nice 
and  respectful  like. 

CLARA.     Go  on,  Joan,  don't  be  afraid. 

JOAN.  It  did  seem  to  fall  in  with  the  game  I  was 
a-playing  with  myself.  And  then,  before  I  did  know 
how,  'twas  they  was  both  of  them  a-taking  me  for  you, 
mam. 

CLARA.    And  did  you  not  un-deceive  them,  Joan  ? 

JOAN.     [Very  ashamedly.]    No,  mam. 

CLARA.  You  should  have  told  them  the  truth  about 
yourself  at  once. 

JOAN.  0  I  know  I  should  have,  mistress.  But  there 
was  something  as  held  me  back  when  I  would  have 
spoke  the  words. 

CLARA.    I  wonder  what  that  could  have  been  ? 

JOAN.  'Twas  them  being  such  very  nice  and  kind 
gentlemen.  And,  O  mistress,  you'll  not  understand 
it,  because  you've  told  me  many  times  as  the  heart 
within  you  have  never  been  touched  by  love. 

CLARA.  [Suddenly  sitting  dawn.]  And  has  yours 
been  touched  to-day,  Joan,  by  love  ? 

JOAN.  That  it  have,  mistress.  Love  have  struck 
at  it  heavily. 

CLARA.  Through  which  of  the  gentlemen  did  it 
strike,  Joan  ? 

JOAN.  Through  both.  Leastways,  'tis  Mister  Jenner 
that  my  feelings  do  go  out  most  quickly  to,  mistress. 
But  'tis  Mister  Hooper  who  do  court  the  hardest  and 
who  has  the  greatest  riches  like. 

CLARA.  Well,  and  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  or  to 
say  now,  Joan  ? 

JOAN.     See  here,  mistress,  I  want  you  to  give  me  a 


ACT  ii  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  31 

chance.     They'll  never  stoop  to  wed  me  if  they  knows 
as  I'm  but  a  poor  serving  maid. 

CLARA.  Your  dressing  up  as  a  fine  lady  won't  make 
you  other  than  what  you  are,  Joan. 

JOAN.     Once  let  me  get  the  fish  in  my  net,  mistress. 

CLARA.     Are  you  proposing  to  catch  the  two,  Joan  ? 

JOAN.  I  shall  take  the  one  as  do  offer  first, 
mistress. 

CLARA.     That'll  be  Mister  Hooper,  I  should  think. 

JOAN.  I  should  go  riding  in  my  own  chaise,  mistress, 
if  'twas  him. 

CLARA.  But,  Joan,  either  of  these  men  would  have 
to  know  the  truth  before  there  could  be  any  marriage. 

JOAN.  I  knows  that  full  well,  mistress.  But  let  one 
of  them  just  offer  hisself.  By  that  time  my  heart  and 
his  would  be  so  closely  twined  together  like,  'twould  take 
more  nor  such  a  little  thing  as  my  station  being  low  to 
part  us. 

[CLARA  sits  very  still  for  a  few  moments,  looking 
straight  before  her,  lost  in  thought.  JOAN 
sinks  on  to  a  chair  by  the  table  as  though 
suddenly  tired  out,  and  she  begins  to  cry 
gently. 

CLARA.  Listen,  Joan.  I'm  one  for  the  straight 
paths.  I  like  to  walk  in  open  fields  and  over  the  bare 
heath.  Only  times  come  when  one  is  driven  to  take  to 
the  ways  which  are  set  with  bushes  and  with  briars. 

JOAN.  [Lifting  her  head  and  drying  her  eyes.]  O 
mistress,  I  feel  to  be  asking  summat  as  is  too  heavy  for 
you  to  give. 

CLARA.  But  for  a  certain  thing,  I  could  never  have 
lent  myself  to  this  acting  game  of  yours,  Joan. 

JOAN.     No,  mistress  ? 

CLARA.  Only  that,  to-day,  my  heart  too  has  gone 
from  my  own  keeping. 

JOAN.  0  mistress,  you  don't  mean  to  say  as  his 
lordship  have  followed  us  down  already. 

CLARA.  [Scornfully.]  His  lordship  !  As  if  I  should 
be  stirred  by  him ! 


32  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  n 

JOAN.  [Humbly.]  Who  might  it  be,  mistress,  if  I 
may  ask  ? 

CLARA.  Tis  one  who  would  never  look  upon  me  with 
thoughts  of  love  if  I  went  to  him  as  I  am  now,  Joan. 

JOAN.     I  can't  rightly  understand  you,  mam. 

CLARA.  My  case  is  just  the  same  as  yours,  Joan. 
You  say  that  your  fine  gentlemen  would  not  look  upon 
a  serving  maid. 

JOAN.     I'm  certain  of  it,  mistress. 

CLARA.  And  the  man  I — I  love  will  never  let  his 
heart  go  out  to  mine  with  the  heaviness  of  all  these 
riches  lying  between  us. 

JOAN.  I  count  that  gold  do  pave  the  way  for  most 
of  us,  mistress. 

CLARA.  So  for  this  once,  I  will  leave  the  clear  high 
road,  Joan.  And  you  and  I  will  take  a  path  that  is 
set  with  thorns.  Pray  God  they  do  not  wound  us  past 
healing  at  the  end  of  our  travel. 

JOAN.  0  mistress,  'twill  be  a  lightsome  journey  for 
me. 

CLARA.  But  the  moment  that  you  reach  happiness, 
Joan,  remember  to  confess. 

JOAN.     There  won't  be  nothing  to  fear  then,  mistress. 

CLARA.  Make  him  love  you  for  yourself,  Joan.  O 
we  must  each  tie  the  heart  of  our  true  love  so  tightly  to 
our  own  that  naught  shall  ever  be  able  to  cut  the  bonds. 

JOAN.  Yes,  mistress,  and  I'm  sure  I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you. 

CLARA.  Ah,  I  am  lending  myself  to  all  this,  because 
I,  too,  have  something  to  win  or  lose. 

JOAN.     Where  did  you  meet  him,  mistress  ? 

CLARA.  I  did  not  meet  him.  I  stood  on  the  high 
ground,  and  he  passed  below.  His  face  was  raised  to 
the  light,  and  I  saw  its  look.  I  think  my  love  for  him 
has  always  lain  asleep  in  my  heart,  Joan.  But  when 
he  passed  beneath  me  in  the  meadow,  it  awoke. 

JOAN.  O  mistress,  what  sort  of  an  appearance  has 
the  gentleman  ? 

CLARA.     I  don't  know  how  to  answer  you,  Joan. 


ACT  ii  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  33 

JOAN.  I  count  as  it  would  take  a  rare,  grand  looking 
man  for  to  put  his  lordship  into  the  shadow,  like. 

CLARA.  You  are  right  there,  Joan.  But  now  we  must 
talk  of  your  affairs.  Your  fine  courtiers  will  be  coming 
in  presently  and  you  must  know  how  to  receive  them 
in  a  good  way. 

JOAN.  That's  what  do  hamper  me  dreadful,  my 
speech  and  other  things.  How  would  it  be  if  you  was 
to  help  me  a  little  bit,  like  ? 

CLARA.     With  all  my  heart. 

JOAN.  How  should  I  act  so  not  to  be  found  out, 
mistress  ? 

CLARA.  You  must  speak  little,  and  low.  Do  not 
show  haste  in  your  goings  and  comings.  Put  great 
care  into  your  way  of  eating  and  drinking. 

JOAN.  O  that  will  be  a  fearsome  hard  task.  What 
else  ? 

CLARA.     You  must  be  sisterly  with  Thomas. 

JOAN.  I'd  clean  forgot  him.  I  don't  doubt  but 
what  he'll  ferret  out  the  truth  in  no  time. 

CLARA.  I  don't  think  so.  I  was  but  a  little  child 
when  I  left  him.  He  will  not  remember  how  I  looked. 
And  our  colouring  is  alike,  Joan. 

JOAN.  'Tis  the  eating  and  drinking  as  do  play  most 
heavily  upon  my  mind,  mistress. 

CLARA.  Then  think  of  these  words  as  you  sit  at  table. 
Eat  as  though  you  were  not  hungry  and  drink  as  though 
there  were  no  such  thing  as  thirst.  Let  your  hands 
move  about  your  plate  as  if  they  were  too  tired  to  lift 
the  knife  and  fork. 

[Jo AN,  darts  to  the  dresser — seizes  up  a  plate 
with  a  knife  and  fork,  places  them  on  the 
table  and  sits  down  before  them,  pretending 
to  cut  up  meat.  CLARA  watches  her  smil- 
ingly. 

JOAN.  [Absently,  raising  the  knife  to  her  mouth, ,] 
How's  that,  mistress  ? 

CLARA.  Not  so,  not  so,  Joan.  That  might  betray 
you. 


34  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACTII 

JOAN.    What,  mistress  ? 

CLARA.     "Tis  the  fork  which  journeys  to  the  mouth, 
and  the  knife  stops  at  home  on  the  plate. 

JOAN.     [Dispiritedly.]     'Tis  almost  more  than  I  did 
reckon  for  when  I  started. 

CLARA.     Well,  we  mustn't  think  of  that  now.     We 
must  hold  up  our  spirits,  you  and  I. 

JOAN.     [Getting  up  and  putting  away  the  crockery.]     I'd 

best  take  off  the  bonnet  and  the  cloak,  mistress,  hadn't  I  ? 

CLARA.    Yes,  that  you  had.    We  will  go  upstairs 

together  and  I  will  help  you  change  into  another  gown. 

Come  quickly  so  that  we  may  have  plenty  of  time. 

[They  go  towards  the  staircase  door,  CLARA 
leading  the  way.  With  her  hand  on  the 
latch  of  the  door  she  gives  one  look  round 
the  kitchen.  Then  with  a  sudden  movement 
she  goes  up  to  the  wooden  armchair  at  the 
hearth  and  bends  her  head  till  her  lips  touch 
it,  she  then  runs  upstairs ,  followed  by  JOAN. 


ACT  II.— Scene  2. 

After  a  few  moments  MILES  HOOPER  and  LUKE  JENNER 
come  into  the  kitchen.  They  both  look  round  the 
room  enquiringly. 

LUKE.  Ah,  she  be  still  up  above  with  that  there 
serving  wench  what's  come. 

MILES.  My  good  man,  you  didn't  expect  our  fair 
miss  to  have  finished  her  toilet  under  an  hour,  did  you  ? 

LUKE.  I  don't  see  what  there  was  to  begin  on  myself, 
let  alone  finish. 

MILES.  'Tis  clear  you  know  little  of  the  ways  of  our 
town  beauties,  Luke. 

LUKE.  Still,  I  mean  to  have  my  try  with  her,  Miles 
Hooper. 


ACT  H  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  35 

MILES.  [Sarcastically.]  I'm  quite  agreeable,  Mister 
Jenner. 

[THOMAS  and  GEORGE  come  in.    GEORGE  carries 

a  bucket  of  water. 

THOMAS.     Where's  the  little  maid  got  to  ?     George 
and  me  be  come  up  from  the  field  on  purpose  for  to  bid 
her  welcome  home. 
MILES.     Miss  is  still  at  her  toilet,  farmer. 

[Jo AN,  in  a  flowered  silk  gown,  comes  slowly  and 
carefully  into  the  room,  followed  by  CLARA, 
who  carries  a  lace  shawl  over  one  arm.  She 
has  put  on  a  large  white  apron,  but  wears 
nothing  on  her  head  but  the  narrow  blue 
ribbon.  During  the  following  scene  she 
stands  quietly,  half  hidden  by  the  door. 
[Jo AN  looks  nervously  round  the  room,  then  she 
draws  herself  up  very  haughtily.  MILES 
comes  forward  and  bows  low. 

THOMAS.  [Looking  JOAN  up  and  down.]  Well,  bless 
my  soul,  who'd  have  guessed  at  the  change  it  do  make 
in  a  wench  ? 

JOAN.  [Holding  out  her  hand,  very  coldly.]  A  good 
afternoon  to  you,  sir. 

THOMAS.  [Taking  her  hand  slowly.]  Upon  my  word, 
but  you  might  knock  me  over. 

MILES.  Miss  has  grown  into  a  very  superb  young 
lady,  Thomas. 

THOMAS.  [Still  looking  at  her.]  That  may  be  so,  yet 
'twasn't  as  such  I  had  figured  she  in  the  eye  of  my  mind, 
like.  [There  is  a  moment's  silence. 

THOMAS.  George,  my  boy,  you  and  sister  Clara  used 
to  be  up  to  rare  games  one  with  t'other  once  on  a  time. 
[Turning  to  JOAN.]  There,  my  wench,  I  count  you've 
not  forgotten  Georgie  ? 

JOAN.    I'm  afeared  I've  not  much  of  a  memory. 
THOMAS.     Shake  hands,  my  maid,  and  very  like  as 
the  memory  will  come  back  to  roost  same  as  the  fowls 
do. 
JOAN.     [Bowing  coldly.]    Good  afternoon,  George. 


36  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  n 

MILES.  [Aside  to  Luke.]  Now  that's  what  I  call  a 
bit  of  stylish  breeding. 

[GEORGE  has  made  no  answer  to  JOAN'S  bow. 

He  quietly  ignores  it,  and  takes  up  Ms  pail 

of  water.     As  he  does  so  he  catches  sight 

of  CLARA,  who  has  been  watching  the  whole 

scene  from  the  corner  where  she  is  partly 

concealed.     He  looks  at  her  for  one  moment, 

and  then  sets  the  bucket  down  again. 

THOMAS.    Why,  George — I  guess  as  it's  took  you  as 

it  took  me,  us  didn't  think  how  'twould  appear  when 

Miss  Clara  was  growed  up. 

GEORGE.     [Quietly.]    No,  us  did  not,  master. 

[He  carries  his  pail  into  the  back  kitchen  as 

EMILY  and  the  children  come  in. 

EMILY.  What's  all  this  to-do  in  my  kitchen,  I  should 
like  to  know  ? 

THOMAS.  Us  did  but  come  up  for  to — to  give  a  hand- 
shake to  sister  Clara,  like. 

EMILY.  Well,  now  you  can  go  off  back  to  work  again. 
And  you  — [turning  to  JOAN] — now  that  you've  finished 
curling  of  your  hair  and  dressing  of  yourself  up,  you  can 
go  and  sit  down  in  the  best  parlour  along  with  your 
fancy  gentlemen. 

MILES.  [Offering  his  arm  to  JOAN.]  It  will  be  my 
sweet  pleasure  to  conduct  Missy  to  the  parlour. 

[LtrKE  offers  his  arm  on  the  other  side,  and  JOAN 

moves  off  with  both  the  young  men. 
JOAN.     [As  she  goes.]     Indeed,  I  shall  be  glad  to  rest 
on  a  comfortable  couch.     I'm  dead  tired  of  the  country 
air  already. 

ROBIN.     [Calling  after  her.]    You'll  not  go  off  to  sleep 

afore  the  chicken  and  sparrow  grass  is  ate,  will  you,  Aunt  ? 

[MILES,    LTJKE    and   JOAN    having   gone    out, 

EMILY  begins  to  bang  the  chairs  back  in 

their  places  and  to  arrange  the  room,  watched 

by    the    two    children.    CLARA,    who    has 

remained  half  hidden  by  the  door,  now  goes 

quietly  upstairs. 


ACT  iii  BUSHES    AND   BRIARS  37 

EMILY.     [Calling.]    Here,  George,  Mag. 

[GEORGE  comes  in. 

EMILY.     Well,    George,    'tisn't    much    worse    nor    I 
expected. 

JESSIE.     I  don't  like  Aunt  Clara. 
ROBIN.     I  hates  her  very  much. 
GEORGE.     [Slowly.]    And  I  don't  seem  to  fancy  her 
neither. 

[Curtain.] 


ACT  III.— Scene  1. 

Two  days  have  passed  by. 

It  is  morning.  CLARA,  wearing  an  apron  and  a  muslin 
cap  on  her  head,  sits  by  the  kitchen  table  mending  a 
lace  handkerchief.  MAGGIE,  who  is  dusting  the 
plates  on  the  dressers,  pauses  to  watch  her. 

MAGGIE.  I'd  sooner  sweep  the  cow  sheds  out  and 
that  I  would,  nor  have  to  set  at  such  a  niggly  piece  of 
sewing  work  as  you. 

CLARA.     I  cannot  do  it  quickly,  it  is  so  fine. 

MAGGIE.  I  count  'tis  very  nigh  as  bad  as  the  tread- 
mills, serving  a  young  miss  such  as  yourn  be. 

CLARA.     What  makes  you  say  that,  Maggie  ? 

MAGGIE.  Missis  be  very  high  in  her  ways  and  power- 
ful sharp  in  the  tongue,  but  I  declare  as  your  young 
lady  will  be  worser  nor  missis  when  she  do  come  to  that 
age. 

CLARA.    Why  do  you  think  this,  Mag  ? 

MAGGIE.  O  she  do  look  at  any  one  as  though  they 
was  lower  nor  the  very  worms  in  the  ground.  And  her 
speaks  as  though  each  word  did  cost  she  more  nor  a 
shilling  to  bring  it  out.  And  see  how  destructive  she 
be  with  her  fine  clothing.  A  laced  petticoat  tore  to 
ribbons  last  night,  and  to-day  yon  handkerchief. 

CLARA.     These  things  are  soon  mended. 

[MAGGIE  continues  to  dust  for  a  few  moments. 


38  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  m 

MAGGIE.  The  day  you  corned  here,  'twas  a  bit  of 
ribbon  as  you  did  have  around  of  your  hair. 

CLARA.  [After  a  moment's  hesitation.]  I  put  it  on 
to  keep  my  hair  neat  on  the  journeying. 

MAGGIE.  [Coming  nearer.]  I  count  as  you've  not 
missed  it,  have  you  ? 

CLARA.  Indeed  I  have,  and  I  think  I  must  have  lost 
it  in  the  hayfield. 

MAGGIE.     'Tain't  lost. 

CLARA.    Where  is  it  then  ? 

MAGGIE.     Look  here,  I  could  tell  you,  but  I  shan't. 

CLARA.  If  you  have  found  it,  Maggie,  you  may  keep 
it. 

MAGGIE.  'Twould  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  a  grand 
serving  maid  as  you  be,  and  to  give  away  ribbons,  so 
'twould. 

[CLARA  takes  no  notice  of  her  and  goes  on  sewing. 

MAGGIE.  [More  insistently.]  'Twasn't  me  as  found 
the  ribbon. 

CLARA.    Who  was  it  then  ? 

MAGGIE.  I  daresay  you'd  like  for  to  know,  but  I'm 
not  going  to  say  nothing  more  about  it. 

[MAGGIE  leans  against  the  table  watching  CLARA 

as  she  sews. 

[EMILY  with  both  the  children  now  come  in. 
EMILY  carries  a  basket  of  potatoes,  and 
JESSIE  a  large  bowl. 

EMILY.  [Setting  down  the  basket.]  Maggie,  you  idle, 
bad  girl,  whatever  are  you  doing  here  when  master 
expects  you  down  in  the  meadow  to  help  with  the 
raking  ? 

MAGGIE.     I  be  just  a-going  off  yonder,  mistress. 

EMILY.  I'd  thank  other  folk  not  to  bring  dressed  up 
fine  young  serving  minxes  down  here — you  was  bad 
enough  afore,  Maggie,  but  you'll  be  a  hundred  times 
worser  now. 

MAGGIE.  I'll  be  off  and  help  master.  I've  been  and 
put  the  meat  on  to  boil  as  you  said,  missis. 

[MAGGIE  goes  off. 


ACT  in  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  39 

[CLARA  continues  to  sew,  quietly.  JESSIE  has 
put  her  bowl  down  on  the  table,  and  now 
comes  to  her  side.  ROBIN  also  comes  close 
to  her.  EMILY  flings  herself  into  a  chair  for 
a  moment  and  contemptuously  watches 
them. 

JESSIE.  We  don't  care  much  about  our  new  aunt, 
Joan. 

ROBIN.     Dad  said  as  how  Aunt  would  be  sure  to  bring 
us  sommat  good  from  London  town  in  them  great  boxes. 
JESSIE.     And  Aunt  has  been  here  two  days  and  more, 
and  she  hasn't  brought  us  nothing. 

EMILY.  Your  fine  aunt  have  been  too  much  took  up 
with  her  fancy  gentlemen  to  think  of  what  would  be 
suitable  behaviour  towards  you  children. 

JESSIE.  Will  Aunt  Clara  get  married  soon  ? 
EMILY.  Tis  to  be  hoped  as  she  will  be.  Such  a  set 
out  in  the  house  I  have  never  seen  afore  in  all  my  days. 
Young  women  as  is  hale  and  hearty  having  their  victuals 
took  up  to  their  rooms  and  a-lying  in  bed  till  'tis  noon 
or  later. 

JESSIE.     'Tis  only  one  of  them  as  lies  in  bed. 
ROBIN.     [To  CLARA.]    Do  you  think  Aunt  has  got 
sommat  for  us  upstairs,  Joan  ? 

CLARA.  [Rising  and  putting  down  her  work.}  I  know 
she  has,  Robin. 

EMILY.  Don't  let  me  catch  you  speaking  to  Master 
Spring  as  though  you  and  he  was  of  the  same  station, 
young  person. 

CLARA.  Master  Robin,  and  Miss  Jessie,  I  will  go 
upstairs  and  fetch  the  gifts  that  your  aunt  has  brought 
for  you. 

[She  goes  leisurely  towards  the  staircase  door, 

smiling  at  the  children. 

EMILY.     Ah,  and  you  may  tell  your  young  madam 

that  'tis  high  time  as  she  was  out  of  bed  and  abroad. 

Hear  that  ?  [CLARA  goes  out. 

JESSIE.     I  like  her.     She  speaks  so  gentle.     Not  like 

Aunt. 


40  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  m 

EMILY.  She's  a  stuck  up  sort  of  fine  lady  herself  like. 
Look  at  the  hands  of  her,  'tis  not  a  day's  hard  work  as 
they  have  done  in  her  life,  I'll  warrant. 

ROBIN.  What  will  she  bring  us  from  out  of  the  great 
boxes,  do  you  think  ? 

EMILY.  Sommat  what  you  don't  need,  I  warrant. 
Tis  always  so.  When  folks  take  it  into  their  heads  to 
give  you  aught,  'tis  very  nigh  always  sommat  which  you 
could  do  better  without. 

[EMILY  gets  up  and  begins  settling  the  pots  on 
the  fire,  and  fetching  a  jug  of  cold  water  from 
the  back  kitchen  and  a  knife  which  she  lays 
on  the  table. 

[CLARA  enters  carrying  some  parcels.  She 
brings  them  to  the  table.  Both  the  children 
run  to  her. 

CLARA.  [Holding  out  a  long  parcel  to  EMILY  and 
speaking  to  the  children.']  The  first  is  for  your  mother, 
children. 

EMILY.  [With  an  angry  exclamation.]  Now,  you 
mark  my  words,  'twill  be  sommat  as  I  shall  want  to 
fling  over  the  hedge  for  all  the  use  'twill  be. 

[She  comes  near,  opens  the  parcel  and  perceives 

it  to  be  a  length  of  rich  black  silk. 
CLARA.     My  mistress  thought  it  might  be  suitable. 
EMILY.     Suitable  ?     I'll    suitable    her.     When    shall 
my  two  hands  find  time  to  sew  me  a  gown  out  of  it,  I'd 
like  to  know  ?     And  if  'twas  sewn,  when  would  my 
limbs  find  time  to  sit  down  within  of  it  ?     [Flinging  it 
down    on    the    table.]    Suitable  ?     You    can    tell    your 
mistress  from  me  as  she  can  keep  her  gifts  to  herself  if 
she  can't  do  better  nor  this. 

JESSIE.  [Stroking  the  silk.]  0  Mother,  the  feel  of  it 
be  softer  nor  a  dove's  feather. 

ROBIN.  [Feeling  it  too.]  'Tis  better  nor  the  new 
kittens'  fur. 

EMILY.  Let  us  see  if  your  aunt  have  done  more 
handsomely  towards  you  children. 

CLARA.     I  am  afraid  not.    These  coral  beads  are  for 


ACT  m  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  41 

Miss  Jessie,  with  her  aunt's  dear  love.     And  this  book 
of  pictures  is  for  Master  Robin. 

JESSIE.     [Seizing  the  beads  with  delight.]    I  love  a 
string  of  beads.     [Putting  them  on.]    How  do  they  look 


on  me 


EMILY.  Off  with  them  this  moment.  I'll  learn  her 
to  give  strings  of  rubbish  to  my  child. 

JESSIE.  [Beginning  to  cry.]  O  do  let  me  wear  it  just 
a  little  while,  just  till  dinner,  Mother. 

EMILY.  Have  done  with  that  noise.  Off  with  it  at 
once,  do  you  hear. 

JESS.  [Taking  the  necklace  off.]  I  love  the  feel  of 
it — might  I  keep  it  in  my  hand  then  ? 

EMILY.  [Seizing  it.]  'Twill  be  put  by  with  the  silk 
dress.  So  there.  Tis  not  a  suitable  thing  for  a  little 
girl  like  you. 

ROBIN.  [Looking  up  from  the  pages  of  his  book.]  No 
one  shan't  take  my  book  from  me.  There  be  pictures 
of  great  horses  and  sheep  and  cows  in  it — and  no  one 
shan't  hide  it  from  me. 

EMILY.  [Putting  the  silk  dress  and  necklace  on  another 
table.]  Next  time  your  aunt  wants  to  throw  her  money 
into  the  gutter  I  hope  as  she'll  ask  me  to  come  and  see 
her  a-doing  of  it. 

JESSIE.  [Coming  up  to  CLARA  very  tearfully.]  And 
was  there  naught  for  Dad  in  the  great  box  ? 

CLARA.     Perhaps  there  may  be. 

ROBIN.  And  did  Aunt  Clara  bring  naught  for 
Georgie  ? 

CLARA.     I  don't  know. 

JESSIE.  Poor  Georgie.  He  never  has  nothing  gived 
him. 

ROBIN.  And  Mother  puts  the  worst  of  the  bits  on 
his  plate  at  dinner. 

EMILY.  [Sharply.]  Look  you  here,  young  woman. 
Suppose  you  was  to  take  and  do  something  useful  with 
that  idle  pair  of  hands  as  you've  got. 

CLARA.  Yes,  mistress,  I  should  like  to  help  you  in 
something. 


42  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  in 

EMILY.     Us  knows  what  fine  promises  lead  to. 
CLARA.     But  I  mean  it.     Do  let  me  help  a  little. 
EMILY.    See  them  taters  ? 
CLARA.     Yes. 

EMILY.     Take  and  peel  and  wash  them  and  get  them 
ready  against  when  I  wants  to  cook  them. 
CLARA.     [A  little  doubtfully.]    Yes — I'll — I'll  try — 
EMILY.     Ah,  'tis  just  as  I  thought.     You're  one  of 
them  who  would  stir  the  fire  with  a  silver  spoon  rather 
nor  black  their  hands  with  the  poker. 

CLARA.  [Eagerly.]  No,  no — it  isn't  that.  I'll  gladly 
do  them.  Come,  Miss  Jessie,  you  will  shew  me  if  I  do 
them  wrongly,  won't  you  ? 

JESSIE.     O  yes,  I'll  help  you  because  I  like  you,  Joan. 
ROBIN.     I'll  help  too,  when  I  have  finished  looking  at 
my  book. 

[EMILY  goes  out.  CLARA  sits  down  by  the  table 
and  takes  up  a  potato  and  the  knife  and 
slowly  and  awkwardly  sets  to  work.  JESSIE 
stands  by  her  watching. 

JESSIE.  You  mustn't  take  no  account  of  Mother 
when  she  speaks  so  sharp.  'Tis  only  her  way. 

ROBIN.  Could  you  come  and  be  our  serving  maid 
when  Maggie's  sent  off  ? 

CLARA.  0  I  should  be  too  slow  and  awkward  at  the 
work,  I  think. 

JESSIE.     Yes,  you  don't  do  them  taters  very  nice. 
ROBIN.     That  don't  matter,  I  like  you,  and  you  can 
tell  me  fine  things  about  other  parts. 

JESSIE.  Georgie  can  tell  of  fine  things  too.  See, 
there  he  comes  with  the  vegetables  from  the  garden. 

[GEORGE  comes  in  with  a  large  basket  of  vegetables, 
which  he  sets  down  in  the  back  kitchen.  Then 
he  stands  at  the  door,  silently  watching  the 
group  near  the  table. 

JESSIE.  Come  here,  Georgie,  and  let  Joan  hear  some 
of  the  tales  out  of  what  you  do  sing. 

GEORGE.  What  would  mistress  say  if  she  was  to 
catch  me  at  my  songs  this  time  of  day  ? 


ACT  in  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  43 

JESSIE.  Mother's  gone  upstairs,  she  won't  know 
nothing. 

ROBIN.  Come  you  here,  George,  and  look  at  my  fine 
book  what  Aunt  have  brought  me. 

GEORGE.  [Slowly  approaching  the  table.]  That  be  a 
brave,  fine  book  of  pictures,  Master  Robin. 

ROBIN.  [Holding  up  the  open  book.]  I  don't  fancy 
Aunt  Clara  much,  but  I  likes  her  better  nor  I  did  because 
of  this  book. 

[GEORGE'S  eyes  wander  from  the  book  to  CLARA 
as  she  bends  over  her  work. 

JESSIE.  Joan  doesn't  know  how  to  do  them  very 
nicely,  does  she  George  ! 

GEORGE.  Tis  the  first  time  you've  been  set  down  to 
such  work,  may  be,  mistress. 

JESSIE.  You  mustn't  say  "  mistress  "  to  Joan,  you 
know.  Why,  Mother  would  be  ever  so  angry  if  she  was 
to  hear  you.  Joan's  only  a  servant. 

CLARA.     [Looking  up.]    Like  you,  George. 

GEORGE.  [Steadily.]  What  I  was  saying  is — 'Tis  the 
first  time  as  you  have  been  set  afore  a  bowl  of  taters 
like  this. 

CLARA.  You  are  right,  George.  It  is  the  first  time 
since — since  I  was  quite  a  little  child.  And  I  think 
I'm  very  clumsy  at  my  work. 

GEORGE.  No  one  could  work  with  them  laces  a- 
f ailing  down  all  over  their  fingers. 

JESSIE.  You  should  turn  back  your  sleeves  for 
kitchen  work,  Joan,  same  as  Maggie  does. 

GEORGE.  Yes,  you  should  turn  back  your  sleeves, 
Miss  Joan. 

[Jo AN  puts  aside  the  knife  and  basket,  turns  back 
her  sleeves,  and  then  resumes  her  work. 
GEORGE'S  eyes  are  rivetted  on  her  hands 
and  arms  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turns  as 
though  to  go  away. 

JESSIE.  Don't  go  away,  Georgie.  Come  and  tell 
us  how  you  like  Aunt  Clara  now  that  she's  growed  into 
such  a  grand  lady. 


44  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  in 

GEORGE.  [Coming  back  to  the  table.]  I  don't  like 
nothing  about  her,  Miss  Jessie. 

JessiE.  Is  Aunt  very  much  changed  from  when  she 
did  use  to  ride  the  big  horses  to  the  trough,  Georgie  ? 

ROBIN.  And  from  the  time  when  th'  old  gander  did 
take  a  big  piece  right  out  of  her  arm,  Georgie  ? 

GEORGE.  [His  eyes  on  CLARA'S  bent  head.]  I  count 
her  be  wonderful  changed,  like. 

JESSIE.    So  that  you  would  scarce  know  her  ? 

GEORGE.    So  that  I  should  scarce  know  she. 

JESSIE.  She  have  brought  Mother  a  silken  gown 
and  me  a  string  of  coral  beads.  But  naught  for  you, 
Georgie. 

GEORGE.  I  reckon  as  Miss  Clara  have  not  kept  me 
in  her  remembrance  like. 

CLARA.  [With  sudden  earnestness.']  0  that  she  has, 
George. 

JESSIE.     She  didn't  seem  to  know  him  by  her  looks. 

CLARA.     Looks  often  speak  but  poorly  for  the  heart. 

ROBIN.  [Who  has  been  watching  CLARA.]  See  there, 
Joan.  You've  been  and  cut  that  big  tater  right  in  half. 
Mother  will  be  cross. 

CLARA.  O  dear,  I  am  thoughtless.  One  cannot  work 
and  talk  at  the  same  time. 

GEORGE.  [Taking  basket  and  knife  from  her  and 
seating  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  table.']  Here, — give 
them  all  to  me.  I  understand  such  work,  and  'tis  clear 
that  you  do  not.  I'll  finish  them  off  in  a  few  minutes, 
and  mistress  will  never  be  the  wiser. 

CLARA.     0  thank  you,  George,    but  am  I  to  go  idle  ? 

GEORGE.  You  can  take  up  with  that  there  white 
sewing  if  you  have  a  mind.  'Tis  more  suited  to  your 
hands  nor  this  rough  job.1 

[CLARA  puts  down  her  sleeves  and  takes  up  her 
needlework. 

JESSIE.  Sing  us  a  song,  George,  whilst  you  do  the 
taters. 

GEORGE.  No,  Miss  Jessie.  My  mood  is  not  a  singing 
mood  this  day. 


ACT  m  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  45 

JESSIE.     You  ask  him,  Joan. 

CLARA.     Will  not  you  sing  one  little  verse,  George  ? 

GEORGE.  Nay — strangers  from  London  town  would 
have  no  liking  for  the  songs  we  sing  down  here  among  the 
fields. 

CLARA.  There  was  a  song  I  once  heard  in  the  country 
that  pleased  me  very  well. 

JESSIE.    What  was  it  called  ? 

CLARA.  I  cannot  remember  the  name — but  there  was 
something  of  bushes  and  of  briars  in  it. 

JESSIE.  I  know  which  that  is.  'Tis  a  pretty  song. 
Sing  it,  Georgie. 

GEORGE.    Nay— sing  it  yourself,  Miss  Jessie. 

JESSIE.  'Tis  like  this  at  the  beginning. — [she  sings 
or  repeats] — 

"  Through  bushes  and  through  briars 
I  lately  took  my  way, 
All  for  to  hear  the  small  birds  sing 
And  the  lambs  to  skip  and  play." 

CLARA.    That  is  the  song  I  was  thinking  of,  Jessie. 
GEORGE.    Can  you  go  on  with  it,  Miss  Jessie. 
JESSIE.     I  can't  say  any  more. 
CLARA.     [Gently  singing  or  speaking.'] 

I  overheard  my  own  true  love, 
Her  voice  it  was  so  clear. 
"  Long  time  I  have  been  waiting  for 
The  coming  of  my  dear." 

GEORGE.     [Heaving  a  sigh.]  '  That's  it. 
JESSIE.     Go  on,  Joan,  I  do  like  the  sound  of  it. 
CLARA.    Shall  I  go  on  with  the  song,  George  ? 
GEORGE.    As  you  please. 
CLARA. 

"  Sometimes  I  am  uneasy 
And  troubled  in  my  mind, 
Sometimes  I  think  I'll  go  to  my  love 
And  tell  to  him  my  mind." 


46  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  in 

"  And  if  I  would  go  to  my  love 
My  love  he  will  say  nay 
If  I  show  to  him  my  boldness 
He'll  ne'er  love  me  again." 

JESSIE.  When  her  love  was  hid  a-hind  of  the  bushes 
and  did  hear  her  a-singing  so  pitiful,  what  did  he  do 
then? 

CLARA.     I  don't  know,  Jessie. 

JESSIE.  I  reckon  as  he  did  come  out  to  show  her  as 
he  knowed  all  what  she  did  keep  in  her  mind. 

CLARA.  Very  likely  the  briars  were  so  thick  between 
them,  Jess,  that  he  never  got  to  the  other  side  for  her 
to  tell  him. 

GEORGE.     Yes,  that's  how  'twas,  I  count. 

JESSIE.  [Running  up  to  ROBIN.]  I'm  going  to  look 
at  your  book  along  of  you,  Robin. 

ROBIN.  But  I'm  the  one  to  turn  the  leaves,  remember. 
[The  children  sit  side  by  side  looking  at  the 
picture  book.  CLARA  sews.  GEORGE  goes 
on  with  the  potatoes.  As  the  last  one  is 
finished  and  tossed  into  the  water,  he  looks 
at  CLARA  for  the  first  time.  A  long  silence. 

GEORGE.  Miss  Clara  and  me  was  good  friends  once 
on  a  time. 

CLARA.     Tell  me  how  it  was  then,  George. 

GEORGE.  I  did  used  to  put  her  on  the  horse's  back, 
and  we  would  go  down  to  the  water  trough  in  the  evening 
time  and — 

CLARA.  What  else  did  you  and  Miss  Clara  do  together, 
George  ? 

GEORGE.  Us  would  walk  in  the  woods  aside  of  one 
another — And  I  would  lift  she  to  a  high  branch  in  a 
tree — and  pretend  for  to  leave  her  there. 

CLARA.    And  then  ? 

GEORGE.  Her  would  call  upon  me  pitiful — and  I 
would  come  back  from  where  I  was  hid. 

CLARA.     And  did  her  crying  cease  ? 

GEORGE.    She  would  take  and  spring  as  though  her 


ACT  in  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  47 

was  one  of  they  little  wild  squirrels  as  do  dance  about 
in  the  trees. 

CLARA.     Where  would  she  spring  to,  George  ? 

GEORGE.  I  would  hold  out  my  two  arms  wide  to  her, 
and  catch  she. 

CLARA.  And  did  she  never  fall,  whilst  springing  from 
the  tree,  George  ? 

GEORGE .  I  never  let  she  fall,  nor  get  hurted  by  naught 
so  long  as  her  was  in  the  care  of  me. 

CLARA.  [Slowly,  after  a  short  pause.]  I  do  not  think 
she  can  have  forgotten  those  days,  George. 

GEORGE.  [Getting  up  and  speaking  harshly.]  They're 
best  forgot.  Put  them  away.  There  be  briars  and 
brambles  and  thorns  and  sommat  of  all  which  do  hurt 
the  flesh  of  man  atween  that  time  and  this'n. 

[CLARA  turns  her  head  away  and  furtively 
presses  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  GEORGE 
looks  gloomily  on  the  floor.  EMILY  enters. 

EMILY.  George,  what  are  you  at  sitting  at  the  kitchen 
table  I'd  like  to  know  ? 

[GEORGE  gets  hastily  off.  Both  children  look 
up  from  their  book. 

EMILY.  [Looking  freezingly  at  CLARA.]  'Tis  plain  as 
a  turnpike  what  you've  been  after,  young  person.  If 
you  was  my  serving  wench,  'tis  neck  and  crop  as  you 
should  be  thrown  from  the  door. 

CLARA.     What  for,  mistress  ? 

EMILY.  What  for  ?  You  have  the  impudence  to 
ask  what  for  ?  I'll  soon  tell  you.  For  making  a  fool 
of  George  and  setting  your  cap  at  him  and  scandalising 
of  my  innocent  children  in  their  own  kitchen. 

GEORGE.  This  be  going  a  bit  too  far,  missis.  I'll 
not  have  things  said  like  that. 

EMILY.  Then  you  may  turn  out  on  to  the  roads 
where  you  were  took  from — a  grizzling  little  roadsters 
varmint.  You  do  cost  more'n  what  you  eats  nor  what 
we  get  of  work  from  out  of  your  body,  you  great  hulk. 

CLARA.  [Springing  up  angrily.]  0  I'll  not  hear  such 
things  said.  I'll  not. 


48  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  m 

EMILY.  Who  asked  you  to  speak  ?  Get  you  up- 
stairs and  pull  your  mistress  out  of  bed — and  curl  the 
ringlets  of  her  hair  and  dust  the  flour  on  to  her  face. 
"Tis  about  all  you  be  fit  for. 

CLARA.  [Angrily  going  to  the  stair  door.]  Very  well. 
'Tis  best  that  I  should  go.  I  might  say  something  you 
would  not  like. 

GEORGE.  [Advancing  towards  EMILY.]  Look  you 
here,  mistress.  I've  put  up  with  it  going  on  for  fifteen 
years.  But  sometimes  'tis  almost  more  nor  I  can  bear. 
If  'twasn't  for  Master  Thomas  I'd  have  cleared  out  this 
long  time  ago. 

EMILY.  Don't  flatter  yourself  as  Thomas  needs  you, 
my  man. 

GEORGE.  We  has  always  been  good  friends,  farmer 
and  me.  'Tis  not  for  what  I  gets  from  he  nor  for  what 
he  do  get  out  of  I  as  we  do  hold  together.  But  'tis  this 
— as  he  and  I  do  understand  one  another. 

EMILY.  We'll  see  what  master  has  to  say  when  I  tell 
him  how  you  was  found  sitting  on  the  kitchen  table  and 
love-making  with  that  saucy  piece  of  London  trash. 

GEORGE.  I'm  off.  I've  no  patience  to  listen  any 
longer.  You  called  me  roadster  varmint.  Well,  let 
it  be  so.  On  the  road  I  was  born  and  on  the  road  I  was 
picked  from  my  dead  mother's  side,  and  I  count  as  'tis 
on  the  road  as  I  shall  breathe  my  last.  But  for  all  that, 
I'll  not  have  road  dirt  flung  on  me  by  no  one.  For, 
roadsters  varmint  though  I  be,  there  be  things  which  I 
do  hold  brighter  nor  silver  and  cleaner  nor  new  opened 
leaves,  and  I'll  not  have  defilement  throwed  upon  them. 

EMILY.  [Seizing  the  arms  of  JESSIE  and  ROBIN.]  The 
lad's  raving.  'Tis  plain  as  he's  been  getting  at  the  cider. 
Come  you  off  with  me  to  the  haymaking,  Robin  and  Jess. 

ROBIN.     May  I  take  my  book  along  of  me  ? 

EMILY.  [Flinging  the  book  down  violently.]  I'll  book 
you  !  What  next  ? 

JESSIE.  Poor  Georgie.  He  was  not  courting  Joan, 
mother.  He  was  only  doing  the  taters  for  her. 

EMILY.     [As  they  go  out.]    The  lazy  good-for-nothing 


ACT  in  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  49 

cat.     I'll  get  her  packed  off  from  here  afore  another 
sun  has  set,  see  if  I  don't. 

[GEORGE  is  left  alone  in  the  kitchen.     When  all 

sounds  of  EMILY  and  the  children  have  died 

away,    he   sighs.     Then,    looking  furtively 

round  the  room,   he  draws  a  blue  ribbon 

slowly  from  his  pocket.     He  spreads  it  out 

on  one  hand  and  stands  looking  down  on  it, 

sadly    and    longingly.     Then    he    slowly 

raises  it  to  his  lips  and  kisses  it.     Just  as 

he  is  doing  this  THOMAS  comes  into  the  room. 

THOMAS.     Why,  George,  my  lad. 

GEORGE.     [Confusedly  putting  the  ribbon  back  into  his 

pocket.]     Yes,  Master  Thomas. 

THOMAS.     [Looking  meaningly  at  GEORGE.]     'Tis   a 
pretty  enough  young  maid,  George. 
GEORGE.    What  did  you  say,  Master  ? 
THOMAS.    That  one  with  the  bit  of  blue  round  the 
head  of  her. 
GEORGE.    Blue  ? 

THOMAS.    Ah,  George.     I  was  a  young  man  myself 
once  on  a  time. 

GEORGE.     Yes,  master. 

THOMAS.     'T wasn't  a  piece  of  blue  ribbon  as  I  did 
find  one  day,  but  'twas  a  blossom  dropped  from  her  gown. 
GEORGE.    Whose  gown,  master  ?  I'll  warrant  'twasn't 
missus's. 

THOMAS.     Bless    my    soul,    no.    No,    no,    George. 
'Twasn't  the  mistress  then. 

GEORGE.    Ah,  I  count  as  it  could  not  have  been  she. 
THOMAS.     First  love,  'tis  best,  George. 
GEORGE.     Ah,  upon  my  word,  that  'tis. 
THOMAS.     But  my  maid  went  and  got  her  married 
to  another. 

GEORGE.    More's  the  pity,  Master  Thomas. 
THOMAS.     [Sighing.]    Ah,  I  often  thinks  of  how  it 
might  have  been — with  her  and  me,  like. 

GEORGE.     Had  that  one  a  soft  tongue  to  her  mouth, 
master  ? 


50  BUSHES    AND   BRIARS  ACT  in 

THOMAS.    Soft  and  sweet  as  the  field  lark,  George. 

GEORGE.  Then  that  had  been  the  one  for  you  to 
have  wed,  Master  Thomas. 

THOMAS.  Ah,  George,  don't  you  never  run  into  the 
trap,  no  matter  whether  'tis  baited  with  the  choicest 
thing  you  ever  did  dream  on.  Once  in,  never  out. 
There  'tis. 

GEORGE.  No  one  would  trouble  to  set  a  snare  for 
me,  master.  I  baint  worth  trapping. 

THOMAS.  Yon  be  a  brave,  fine  country  lad,  George, 
what  a  pretty  baggage  from  London  town  might  give 
a  year  of  her  life  to  catch,  so  be  it  her  had  the  fortune. 

GEORGE.  No,  no,  Master  Thomas.  Nothing  of  that. 
There  baint  nothing. 

THOMAS.    There  be  a  piece  of  blue  ribbon,  George. 

GEORGE.  They  be  coming  down  and  into  the  room 
now,  master.  [Steps  are  heard  in  the  staircase. 

THOMAS.     We'll  off  to  the  meadow  then,  George. 

[GEORGE  and  THOMAS  go  out. 
[Jo  AN,  dressed  as  a  lady  of  fashion,  and  followed 
by  CLARA,  comes  into  the  kitchen. 

CLARA.  Now,  Joan,  if  I  were  you,  I  should  go  out 
into  the  garden,  and  let  the  gentlemen  find  you  in  the 
arbour.  Your  ways  are  more  easy  and  natural  when 
you  are  in  the  air. 

JOAN.  O  I'm  very  nigh  dead  with  fright  when  I'm 
within  doors.  'Tis  so  hard  to  move  about  without 
knocking  myself  against  sommat.  But  at  table  'tis 
worst  of  all. 

CLARA.  You've  stopped  up  in  your  room  two 
breakfasts  with  the  headache,  and  yesterday  we  took 
our  dinner  to  the  wood. 

JOAN.  But  to-night  'twill  be  something  cruel,  for 
Farmer  Thomas  have  asked  them  both  to  supper 
again. 

CLARA.     Luke  Jenner  and  the  other  man  ? 

JOAN.  I  beg  you  to  practise  me  in  my  ways,  a  little, 
afore  the  time,  mistress. 

CLARA.    That  I  will.    We  will  find  out  what  is  to  be 


ACT  m  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  51 

upon  the  table,  and  then  I  will  shew  you  how  it  is  to  be 
eaten. 

JOAN.  And  other  things  as  well  as  eating.  When  I 
be  sitting  in  the  parlour,  Miss  Clara,  and  Hooper,  he 
conies  up  and  asks  my  pleasure,  what  have  I  got  to  say 
to  him  ? 

CLARA.  O,  I  shouldn't  trouble  about  that.  I'd 
open  my  fan  and  take  no  notice  if  I  were  you. 

JOAN.  I  do  feel  so  awkward  like  in  speech  with 
Farmer  Thomas,  mistress.  And  with  the  children,  too. 

CLARA.  Come,  you  must  take  heart  and  throw  your- 
self into  the  acting.  Try  to  be  as  a  sister  would  with 
Thomas.  Be  lively,  and  kind  in  your  way  with  the 
children. 

JOAN.  I  tries  to  be  like  old  Madam  Lovel  was,  when 
I  talks  with  them. 

CLARA.  That  cross,  rough  mode  of  hers  sits  badly 
on  any  one  young,  Joan.  Be  more  of  yourself,  but 
make  little  changes  in  your  manner  here  and  there. 

JOAN.  [With  a  heavy  sigh.]  'Tis  the  here  and  the 
there  as  I  finds  it  so  hard  to  manage. 

JESSIE.  [Running  in  breathlessly.]  A  letter,  a  letter 
for  Aunt  Clara.  [CLARA  involuntarily  puts  out  her  hand.] 
No,  Joan.  I  was  to  give  it  to  Aunt  Clara  herself.  I've 
run  all  the  way. 

[JOAN  slowly  takes  the  letter,  looking  confused. 

JESSIE.     Will  you  read  it  now,  Aunt  ? 

JOAN.  Run  away,  little  girl,  I  don't  want  no  children 
worriting  round  me  now.  [Suddenly  recollecting  herself 
and  forcing  herself  to  speak  brightly.]  I  mean — no,  my 
dear  little  girl,  I'd  rather  wait  to  read  it  till  I'm  by 
myself  ;  but  thank  you  very  kindly  all  the  same,  my  pet. 

JESSIE.  0,  but  I  should  like  to  hear  the  letter  read, 
so  much. 

JOAN.  Never  mind.  Run  along  back  to  mother, 
there's  a  sweet  little  maid. 

JESSIE.  I'd  sooner  stop  with  you  now,  you  look  so 
much  kinder,  like. 

CLARA.     [Taking  JESSIE'S  hand  and  leading  her  tc 


52  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  in 

the  door.]  Now,  Miss  Jessie,  your  aunt  must  read  her 
letter  in  quiet,  but  if  you  will  come  back  presently  I 
will  have  a  game  with  you  outside. 

JESSIE.  [As  she  runs  off.]  Mother  won't  let  me  talk 
with  you  any  more,  alone.  She  says  as  you've  made  a 
fool  of  Georgie  and  you'll  do  the  same  by  us  all. 

JOAN.  [When  JESSIE  has  run  off.]  There  now,  how 
did  I  do  that,  mistress  ? 

CLARA.     Better,  much  better. 

JOAN.  Tis  the  feeling  of  one  thing  and  the  speaking 
of  another,  with  you  ladies  and  gentlemen.  So  it 
appears  to  me. 

CLARA.  [After  a  moment's  thought.]  No.  It  is  not 
quite  like  that.  But  'tis,  perhaps,  the  dressing  up  of  an 
ugly  feeling  in  better  garments. 

JOAN.  [Handing  the  letter  to  CLARA.]  There,  mis- 
tress, 'tis  yours,  not  mine. 

CLARA.  [Glancing  at  it.]  Lord  Level's  writing. 
[CLARA  opens  the  letter  and  reads  it  through.]  He  will  not 
wait  longer  for  my  answer.  And  he  is  coming  here  as 
fast  as  horses  can  bring  him. 

JOAN.     O,  mistress,  whatever  shall  we  do  ? 

CLARA.  We  had  better  own  to  everything  at  once. 
It  will  save  trouble  in  the  end. 

JOAN.  Own  to  everything  now,  and  lose  all  just  as 
my  hand  was  closing  upon  it,  like  ! 

CLARA.  Poor  Joan,  it  will  not  make  any  difference 
in  the  end,  if  the  man  loves  you  truly. 

JOAN.  Be  kind  and  patient  just  to  the  evening, 
mistress.  Hooper  is  coming  up  to  see  me  now.  I'd 
bring  him  to  offer  his  self,  if  I  was  but  left  quiet  along 
of  him  for  a  ten  minutes  or  so. 

CLARA.     And  then,  Joan  ? 

JOAN.  And  then,  when  was  all  fixed  up  comfortable 
between  us,  mistress,  maybe  as  you  could  break  it 
gently  to  him  so  as  he  wouldn't  think  no  worse  of  me. 

[CLARA  gets  up  and  goes  to  the  window,  where 
she  looks  out  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence. 
JOAN  cries  softly  meanwhile. 


ACT  ni  BUSHES    AND   BRIARS  53 

CLARA.  [Turning  towards  JOAN.]  As  you  will,  Joan. 
Very  likely  'twill  be  to-morrow  morning  before  my  lord 
reaches  this  place. 

JOAN.  0  bless  you  for  your  goodness,  mistress. 
And  I  do  pray  as  all  may  go  as  well  with  you  as  'tis 
with  me. 

CLARA.     [Sadly.]    That  is  not  likely,  Joan. 
JOAN.     What  is  it  stands  in  the  way,  mistress  ? 
CLARA.     Briars,  Joan.     Thorns  of  pride,  and  many 
another  sharp  and  hurting  thing. 

JOAN.  Then  take  you  my  counsel,  mistress,  and  have 
his  lordship  when  he  do  offer  next. 

CLARA.     I'll  think  of  what  you  say,  Joan.     There 

comes  a  moment  when  the  heart  is  tired  of  being  spurned, 

and  it  would  fain  get  into  shelter.  [A  slight  pause. 

JOAN.     [Looking    through    the    window.]    Look    up 

quickly,  mistress.     There's  Hooper. 

CLARA.     [Getting  up.]    Then  I'll  run  away.    May  all 

be  well  with  you,  dear  Joan.  [CLARA  goes  out. 

[JOAN  seats  herself  in  a  high-backed  chair  and 

opens  her  fan.    MILES  enters,  carrying  a 

small  box. 

MILES.  Already  astir,  Miss  Clara.  'Tis  early  hours 
to  be  sure  for  one  of  our  London  beauties. 

[He  advances  towards  her,  and  she  stretches  out 
her  hand  without  rising.  He  takes  it 
ceremoniously. 

JOAN.     You  may  sit  down,  if  you  like,  Mister  Hooper. 
[MILES  places  a  chair  in  front  of  JOAN,  and  sits 

down  on  it. 

MILES.  [Untying  the  parcel.]  I've  been  so  bold  as  to 
bring  you  a  little  keepsake  from  my  place  in  town, 
Missy. 

JOAN.     How  kind  you  are,  Mister  Miles. 
MILES.     You'll  be  able  to  fancy  yourself  in  Bond 
Street  when  you  see  it,  Miss  Clara. 

JOAN.    Now,  you  do  excite  me,  Mister  Hooper. 
MILES.     [Opening  the  box  and  taking  out  a  handsome 
spray  of  bright  artificial  flowers.]    There,  what  do  you 


54  BUSHES    AND   BRIARS  ACT  in 

say  to  that,  Miss  ?     And  we  can  do  you  the  same  in  all 
the  leading  tints. 

JOAN.  O,  'tis  wonderful  modish.  I  declare  I  never 
did  see  anything  to  beat  it  up  in  town. 

MILES.  Now  I  thought  as  much.  I  flatter  myself 
that  we  can  hold  our  own  with  the  best  of  them  in 
Painswick  High  Street. 

JOAN.  I  seem  to  smell  the  very  scent  of  the  blossoms, 
Mister  Hooper. 

[She  puts  out  her  hand  shyly  and  takes  the  spray 

from  MILES,  pretending  to  smell  it. 
MILES.     Well — and  what's  the  next  pleasure,  Madam  ? 
[Jo AN  drops  the  spray  and  begins  to  fan  herself 

violently. 

MILES.     [  Very  gently.]    What's  Missy's  next  pleasure? 
JOAN.     I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Miles. 
MILES.     Miles  Hooper  would  like  Missy  to  ask  for  all 
that  is  his. 

JOAN.     0,  Mister  Hooper,  how  kind  you  are. 
MILES.     Ladies  never  like  the  sound  of  business,  so 
we'll  set  that  aside  for  a  moment  and  discuss  the  music 
of  the  heart  in  place  of  it. 

JOAN.  Ah,  that's  a  thing  I  do  well  understand, 
Mister  Hooper. 

MILES.  I  loved  you  from  the  first,  Miss.  There's 
the  true,  high  born  lady  for  you,  says  I  to  myself. 
There's  beauty  and  style,  elegance  and  refinement. 

JOAN.  Now,  did  you  really  think  all  that,  Mister 
Hooper  ? 

MILES.    Do  not  keep  me  in  suspense,  Miss  Clara. 
JOAN.    What  about,  sir  ? 
MILES.     The  answer  to  my  question,  Missy. 
JOAN.     And  what  was  that,  I  wonder  ? 
MILES.     I  want  my  pretty  Miss  to  take  the  name  of 
Hooper.     Will  she  oblige  her  Miles  ? 

JOAN.     0  that  I  will.     With  all  my  heart. 
MILES.     [Standing    up.]     I    would    not    spoil    this 
moment,  but  by  and  bye  my  sweet  Missy  shall  tell  me 
all  the  particulars  of  her  income,  and  such  trifles. 


ACT  in  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  55 

JOAN.  [Agitatedly.]  0  let  us  not  destroy  to-day  by 
thoughts  of  anything  but  our  dear  affection  one  for 
t'other. 

MILES.  Why,  my  pretty  town  Miss  is  already  becom- 
ing countrified  in  her  speech. 

JOAN.  'Tis  from  hearing  all  the  family.  But,  dear 
Miles,  promise  there  shan't  be  nothing  but — but  love 
talk  between  you  and  me  this  day.  I  could  not  bear 
it  if  we  was  to  speak  of,  of  other  things,  like. 

MILES.     [Getting  up  and  walking  about  the  room.]    As 

you   will — as   you   will.     Anything   to   oblige   a   lady. 

[He  stops   before  the  table,   on  which   is   laid 

EMILY'S  silk  dress,  and  begins  to  finger  it. 

JOAN.     What's  that  you're  looking  at  ? 

MILES.  Ten  or  fifteen  shillings  the  yard,  and  not  a 
penny  under,  I'll  be  bound. 

JOAN.  0  do  come  and  talk  to  me  again  and  leave  off 
messing  with  the  old  silk. 

MILES.  No,  no,  Missy,  I'm  a  man  of  business  habits, 
and  'tis  my  duty  to  go  straight  off  to  the  meadow  and 
seek  out  brother  Thomas.  He  and  I  have  got  to  talk 
things  over  a  bit,  you  know. 

JOAN.     Off  so  soon  !     O  you  have  saddened  me. 

MILES.  Nay,  what  is  it  to  lose  a  few  minutes  of  sweet 
company,  when  life  is  in  front  of  us,  Miss  Clara  ? 

[He  raises  her  hand,  kisses  it,  and  leaves  her. 
As  he  goes  out  by  the  door  CLARA  enters. 

JOAN.  0,  Mistress — stop  him  going  down  to  Farmer 
Thomas  at  the  meadow ! 

CLARA.     Why,  Joan,  what  has  happened  ? 

JOAN.  All  has  happened.  But  stop  him  going  to 
the  farmer  to  talk  about  the — the  wedding  and  the 
money. 

CLARA.     The  money  ? 

JOAN.     The  income  which  he  thinks  I  have. 

CLARA.  I'll  run,  but  all  this  time  I've  been  keeping 
Master  Luke  Jenner  quiet  in  the  parlour. 

JOAN.     0  what  does  he  want  now  ? 

CLARA.    Much  the  same  as  the  other  one  wanted. 


56  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  in 

JOAN.    Must  I  see  him  ? 

CLARA.  Yes,  indeed  he  will  wait  no  longer  for  his 
answer.  He's  at  boiling  point  already. 

JOAN.  Then  send  him  in.  But  do  you  run  quickly, 
Miss  Clara,  and  keep  Miles  Hooper  from  the  farmer. 

CLARA.  I'll  run  my  best,  never  fear.  [She  goes  out. 
[LUKE  JENNER  comes  in,  a  bunch  of  homely 
flowers  in  his  hand. 

JOAN.  [Seating  herself.]  You  are  early  this  morning, 
Mister  Jenner. 

LUKE.  [Sitting  opposite  to  her.]  I  have  that  to  say 
which  would  not  bide  till  sunset,  Miss  Clara. 

JOAN.  Indeed,  Mister  Jenner.  I  wonder  what  that 
can  be. 

LUKE.  Tis  just  like  this,  Miss  Clara.  The  day  I 
first  heard  as  you  was  coming  down  here — "  I  could  do 
with  a  rich  wife  if  so  be  as  I  could  win  her,"  I  did  tell 
myself. 

JOAN.     0,  Mister  Jenner,  now  did  you  really  ? 

LUKE.  But  when  I  met  you  in  the  wood — saw  you 
sitting  there,  so  still  and  yet  so  bright,  so  fine  and  yet  so 
homely.  ;'  That's  the  maid  for  me,"  I  says  to  myself. 

JOAN.     [Tearfully.]     0,  Mister  Jenner ! 

LUKE.  And  if  it  had  been  beggar's  rags  upon  her  in 
the  place  of  satin,  I'd  have  said  the  same. 

JOAN.  [Very  much  stirred.]  O,  Mister  Jenner,  and 
did  you  really  think  like  that  ? 

LUKE.  If  all  the  gold  that  do  lie  atween  me  and  you 
was  sunk  in  the  deep  ocean,  'twould  be  the  best  as  could 
happen.  There ! 

JOAN.     [Faintly.]    0,  Mister  Jenner,  why  ? 

LUKE.  Because,  very  like  'twould  shew  to  you  as 
'tis  yourself  I'm  after  and  not  the  fortune  what  you've 
got. 

JOAN.    Mister  Jenner,  I'm  mighty  sorry. 

LUKE.    Don't  say  I'm  come  too  late,  Miss  Clara. 

JOAN.  You  are.  Mister  Hooper  was  before  you. 
And  now,  'tis  he  and  I  who  are  like  to  be  wed. 

LUKE.     I  might  have  known  I  had  no  chance. 


ACT  m  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  57 

JOAN.  [Rising  and  trying  to  hide  her  emotion.'}  I 
wouldn't  have  had  it  happen  so  for  the  world,  Mr. 
Jenner. 

LUKE.  [Laying  his  bunch  of  flowers  on  the  table,  his 
head  bent,  and  his  eyes  on  the  ground.]  'Twas  none  of 
your  doing,  Miss  Clara.  You've  naught  to  blame 
yourself  for.  "Tis  not  your  fault  as  you're  made  so — 
so  beautiful,  and  yet  so  homely. 

[JOAN  looks  at  him  irresolutely  for  a  moment 

and  then  precipitately  leaves  the  room. 
[LuKE  folds  his  arms  on  the  table  and  rests  his 
head   on   them   in   an   attitude   of  deepest 
despondency.    After  a  few  moments  CLARA 
enters. 

CLARA.     0,  Mister  Jenner,  what  has  happened  to  you. 
LUKE.     [Raising  his  head  and  pointing  to  the  window.] 
There  she  goes,  through  the  garden  with  her  lover. 
CLARA.     I  wish  that  you  were  in  his  place. 
LUKE.     [Bitterly.'}     I've  no  house  with  golden  rails 
to  offer  her.     Nor  any  horse  and  chaise. 

CLARA.  But  you  carry  a  heart  within  you  that  is 
full  of  true  love. 

LUKE.  What  use  is  the  love  which  be  fastened  up  in 
a  man's  heart  and  can  spend  itself  on  naught,  I'd  like 
to  know.  [He  rises  as  though  to  go  and  take  up  the  bunch 
of  flowers  which  has  been  lying  on  the  table.  Brokenly.] 
I  brought  them  for  her.  But  I  count  as  he'll  have  given 
her  something  better  nor  these. 

[CLARA  takes  the  flowers  gently  from  his  hand, 

and  as  she  does  so,  EMILY  enters. 
EMILY.  What  now  if  you  please  !  First  with  George 
and  then  with  Luke.  'Twould  be  Thomas  next  if  he 
wasn't  an  old  sheep  of  a  man  as  wouldn't  know  if  an 
eye  was  cast  on  him  or  no.  But  I'll  soon  put  a  stop 
to  all  this.  Shame  on  you,  Luke  Jenner.  And  you, 
you  fine  piece  of  London  vanity,  I  wants  my  kitchen 
to  myself,  do  you  hear,  so  off  with  you  upstairs. 

[She  begins  to  move  violently  about  the  kitchen 
as  the  curtain  falls. 


58  BUSHES   AND    BRIARS  ACT  iv 


ACT  IV.— Scene  1. 

The  kitchen  is  decorated  with  bunches  of  flowers.  A  long 
table  is  spread  with  silver,  china  and  food.  CLARA  is 
setting  mugs  to  each  place.  MAGGIE  comes  in  from 
the  back  kitchen  with  a  large  dish  of  salad. 

MAGGIE.  When  folks  do  come  down  to  the  country- 
side they  likes  to  enjoy  themselves  among  the  vegetables. 

CLARA.  [Placing  the  last  mug.]  There — Now  all  is 
ready  for  them. 

MAGGIE.  [Bending  over  a  place  at  the  end  of  the  table.] 
Come  you  and  look  at  this  great  old  bumble-dore,  Joan, 
what  have  flyed  in  through  the  window. 

CLARA.  [Goes  to  MAGGIE'S  side  and  bends  down  over 
the  table.]  0  what  a  beautiful  thing.  Look  at  the 
gold  on  him,  and  his  legs  are  like  feathers. 

MAGGIE.  [Taking  the  bee  carefully  up  in  a  duster  and 
letting  it  fly  through  the  window.]  The  sign  of  a  stranger, 
so  they  do  say. 

CLARA.    A  stranger,  Maggie  ? 

MAGGIE.  You  mind  my  words,  'tis  a  stranger  as'll 
sit  where  yon  was  stuck,  afore  the  eating  be  finished. 

CLARA.     I  don't  believe  in  such  signs,  myself. 

MAGGIE.     I  never  knowed  it  not  come  true. 

[THOMAS   comes   in.    He   is   wearing   his   best 
clothes  and  looks  pleased,  yet  nervous. 

THOMAS.  Well,  maids.  Upon  my  word  'tis  a  spread. 
Never  saw  so  many  different  vituals  brought  together 
all  at  a  time  afore  in  this  house. 

MAGGIE.  'Tis  in  honour  of  Miss  Clara's  going  to  be 
married  like,  master. 

THOMAS.  So  'tis,  so  'tis.  Well — A  single  rose  upon 
the  bush.  Bound  to  be  plucked,  you  know.  Couldn't 
be  left  to  fade  in  the  sun,  eh,  girls  ? 

CLARA.  Where  shall  Maggie  and  me  stop  whilst 
the  supper  is  going  on,  master  ?  Mistress  has  not  told 
us  yet. 


ACT  iv  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  59 

THOMAS.  [Nervously.]  Mistress  haven't  told  you — 
haven't  she  ?  Well — well — at  such  a  time  we  must 
all— all  rejoice  one  with  t'other,  like.  No  difference 
made  t'wixt  master  and  man.  Nor  t'wixt  maid  and 
missus.  Down  at  the  far  end  of  the  table  you  can  sit 
yourselves,  my  wenches.  Up  against  George — How's 
that  ? 

CLARA.     That  will  do  very  well  for  us,  Master. 
MAGGIE.     I  don't  expect  as  missus  will  let  we  bide 
there  long. 

THOMAS.     Look  here,  my  wench,  I  be  master  in  my 
own  house,  and  at  the  asking  in  marriage  of  my  only 
sister  like,  'tis  me  as  shall  say  what  shall  sit  down  with 
who.     And  there's  an  end  of  it.     That's  all. 
MAGGIE.     I  hear  them  a  coming  in,  master. 

[EMILY,  holding  the  hands  of  JESSIE  and  ROBIN, 
comes  into  the  room.  Her  eyes  fall  on 
THOMAS  who  is  standing  between  CLARA 
and  MAGGIE,  looking  suddenly  sheepish  and 
nervous. 

EMILY.     [In  a  voice  of  suppressed  anger.]    Thomas  ! 

0,  if  I  catch  any  more  of  these  goings  on  in  my  kitchen. 

[Jo AN,  very  elegantly  dressed  and  hanging  on 

the  arm  of  MILES  HOOPER,  follows  EMILY 

into  the  room. 

EMILY.  I'll  not  have  the  food  kept  back  any  longer 
for  Luke  Jenner.  If  folk  can't  come  to  the  time  when 
they're  asked,  they  baint  worth  waiting  for,  so  sit  you 
down,  all  of  you. 

[She  sits  down  at  the  head  of  the  table,  a  child 
on  either  side  of  her.  JOAN  languidly  sinks 
into  a  chair  and  MILES  puts  himself  at  her 
right.  A  place  at  her  left  remains  empty. 
THOMAS  sits  opposite.  Three  places  at 
the  end  of  the  table  are  left  vacant.  As 
they  sit  down,  GEORGE,  wearing  a 
new  smock  and  neck  handkerchief,  comes 
in. 
EMILY.  [Beginning  to  help  a  dish.]  You  need  not  think 


60  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  iv 

you're  to  be  helped  first,  Clara,  for  all  that  the  party 
is  given  for  you,  like.  The  poor  little  children  have 
been  kept  waiting  a  sad  time  for  their  supper,  first 
because  you  was  such  a  while  a  having  your  head  curled 
and  puffed  out,  and  then  'twas  Luke  Jenner  as  didn't 
come. 

[CLARA  sits  down  at  a  place  at  the  end  of  the 
table.  GEORGE  and  MAGGIE  still  remain 
standing. 

EMILY.  [Perceiving  CLARA'S  movement.]  Well,  I 
never  did  see  anything  so  forward.  Who  told  you  to 
to  sit  yourself  down  along  of  your  betters,  if  you  please, 
madam  serving  maid  ? 

[GEORGE  comes  involuntarily  forward  and  stands 
behind  CLARA'S  chair.  CLARA  does  not 
move. 

EMILY.  Get  you  out  of  that  there  place  this  instant, 
do  you  hear  ?  [Turning  to  MILES.]  To  see  the  way  the 
young  person  acts  one  might  think  as  she  fancied  herself 
as  something  uncommon  rare  and  high.  But  you'll  not 
take  any  fool  in,  not  you,  for  all  that  you  like  to  play 
the  fine  lady.  Us  can  see  through  your  game  very  clear, 
can't  us,  Mr.  Hooper  ? 

MILES.  O  certainly,  to  be  sure,  Missis  Spring.  No 
one  who  has  the  privilege  of  being  acquainted  with  a 
real  lady  of  quality  could  be  mistook  by  any  of  the  games 
played  by  this  young  person. 

[CLARA  looks  him  gravely  in  the  face  without 

moving. 

EMILY.  Get  up,  do  you  hear,  and  help  Maggie  pass 
the  dishes ! 

THOMAS.  [Nervously.]  Nay,  nay,  'twas  my  doing, 
Emily.  I  did  tell  the  wenches  as  they  might  sit  their- 
selves  along  of  we,  just  for  th'  occasion  like. 

EMILY.     And  who  are  you,  if  you  please,  giving  orders 
and  muddling  about  like  a  lord  in  my  kitchen  ? 
THOMAS.     [Faintly.]    Come,  Emily,  I'm  the  master. 
EMILY.    And  I,  the  mistress.     Hear  that,  you  piece 
of  London  impudence  ? 


ACT  iv  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  61 

GEORGE.  [Comes  forward.]  Master  Luke  be  coming 
up  the  garden,  mistress. 

[LuKE  JENNER  enters.  He  goes  straight  up  to 
JOAN  and  holds  out  his  hand  to  her,  and 
then  to  MILES. 

LUKE.  I  do  wish  you  happiness  with  all  my  heart, 
Miss  Clara.  Miles,  my  lad,  'tis  rare — rare  pleased  as  I 
be  to  shake  your  hand  this  day. 

EMILY.  Come,  come,  Luke  Jenner,  you've  been  and 
kept  us  waiting  more  nor  half  an  hour.  Can't  you  sit 
yourself  down  and  give  other  folk  a  chance  of  eating 
their  victuals  quiet  ?  There's  naught  to  make  all  this 
giddle-gaddle  about  as  I  can  see. 

LTJKE  .  [Sitting  down  in  the  empty  place  by  JOAN  's  side .  ] 
Beg  pardon,  mistress,  I  know  I'm  a  bit  late.  But  the 
victuals  as  are  waited  for  do  have  a  better  flavour  to 
them  nor  those  which  be  ate  straight  from  the  pot  like. 
THOMAS.  That's  true  'tis.  And  'tis  hunger  as  do 
make  the  best  sauce. 

[GEORGE  and  MAGGIE  quietly  seat  themselves 
on  either  side  of  CLARA.  EMILY  is  too  busy 
dispensing  the  food  to  take  any  notice. 
GEORGE  hands  plates  and  dishes  to  CLARA, 
and  silently  cares  for  her  comfort  throughout 
the  meal. 

THOMAS.  Well,  Emily;  well,  Luke.  I  didn't  think 
to  lose  my  little  sister  afore  she'd  stopped  a  three  days 
in  the  place.  That  I  did  not.  But  I  don't  grudge  her 
to  a  fine  prospering  young  man  like  friend  Hooper,  no, 
I  don't. 

EMILY.  No  one  called  upon  you  for  a  speech,  Thomas. 
See  if  you  can't  make  yourself  of  some  use  in  passing  the 
green  stuff.  [Turning  to  LUKE.]  We  have  two  serving 
maids  and  a  man,  Mister  Jenner,  but  they're  to  be 
allowed  to  act  the  quality  to-day,  so  we've  got  to  wait 
upon  ourselves. 

LUKE.    A  man  is  never  so  well  served  as  by  his  own 
two  hands,  mistress.     That's  my  saying  at  home. 
THOMAS.     And  a  good  one  too,  Luke,  my  boy,  for 


62  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  iv 

most  folk,  but  with  me  'tis  otherwise  I've  got 
another  pair  of  hands  in  the  place  as  do  for  me  as  well, 
nor  better  than  my  own. 

EMILY.  Yes,  Thomas,  I  often  wonders  where  you'd  be 
without  mine. 

THOMAS.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  yourn,  Emily.  'Tis 
George's  hands  as  I  was  speaking  of. 

EMILY.  [Contemptuously.]  George !  You'll  all  find 
out  your  mistake  one  day,  Thomas. 

MILES.  [To  JOAN,  who  has  been  nervously  handling 
her  knife  and  fork  and  watching  CLARA'S  movements 
furtively.]  My  sweet  Miss  is  not  shewing  any  appetite. 

JOAN.     I'm — I'm  not  used  to  country  fare. 

EMILY.  O,  I  hear  you,  Clara.  Thomas,  this  is  very 
fine.  Clara  can't  feed  'cause  she's  not  used  to  country 
fare  !  What  next,  I'd  like  to  know  ! 

ROBIN.  [Who  has  been  watching  JOAN.]  Why  does 
Aunt  sometimes  put  her  knife  in  her  mouth,  Mother  ? 

MILES.  My  good  boy,  'tis  plain  you've  never  mixed 
among  the  quality  or  you  would  know  that  each  London 
season  has  its  own  new  fashion  of  acting.  This  summer 
'tis  the  stylish  thing  to  put  on  a  countryfied  mode  at 
table. 

JESSIE.    Joan  don't  eat  like  that,  Mister  Hooper. 

MILES.  Joan's  only  a  maid  servant,  Miss  Jessie. 
You  should  learn  to  distinguish  between  such  people 
and  fine  ladies  like  your  aunt. 

JOAN.  [Forcing  herself  to  be  more  animated.]  Give 
me  some  fruit,  Miles — I  have  no  appetite  to-day  for 
heavy  food.  Tis  far  too  warm. 

MILES.  As  for  me,  the  only  food  I  require  is  the 
sweet  honey  of  my  Missy's  voice. 

THOMAS.  Ah,  'tis  a  grand  thing  to  be  a  young  man, 
Miles  Hooper.  There  was  a  day  when  such  things  did 
come  handy  to  my  tongue,  like. 

EMILY.  [Sharply.]  I  don't  seem  to  remember?that 
day,  Thomas. 

^THOMAS.  [Sheepishly,  his  look  falling.]  Ah — 'twas 
afore — afore  our  courting  time,  Emily. 


ACT  iv  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  63 

LUKE.  [Energetically.]  Prime  weather  for  the  hay, 
farmer.  I  count  as  this  dry  will  last  until  the  whole 
of  it  be  carried.  [A  knock  is  heard  at  the  door. 

THOMAS.  Now  who'll  that  be  ?  Did  you  see  anyone 
a-coming  up  the  path,  Mother  ? 

EMILY.  Do  you  expect  me  to  be  carving  of  the  fowls 
and  a-looking  out  of  the  window  the  same  time,  Thomas  ? 

THOMAS.  George,  my  lad,  do  you  open  the  door  and 
see  who  'tis. 

[Jo AN  looks  anxiously  across  the  table  at  CLARA. 
Then  she  drops  her  spoon  and  fork  and 
takes  up  her  fan,  using  it  violently  whilst 
GEORGE  slowly  gets  up  and  opens  the  door. 
LORD  LOVEL  is  seen  standing  on  the 
threshold. 

LORD  LOVEL.  [To  GEORGE.]  Kindly  tell  me,  my 
man,  is  this  the  farm  they  call  Ox  Lease  ? 

GEORGE.    Ah,  that's  right  enough. 

LORD  LOVEL.  I'm  sorry  to  break  in  upon  a  party 
like  this,  but  I  want  to  see  Miss  Clara  Spring  if  she  is 
here. 

THOMAS.  [Standing  up.]  You've  come  at  the  very 
moment,  master.  This  be  a  giving  in  marriage  supper. 
And  'tis  Miss  Clara,  what's  only  sister  to  me,  as  is  to  be 
wed. 

LORD  LOVEL.     Impossible,  my  good  sir ! 

THOMAS.  Ah,  that's  it.  Miles  Hooper,  he's  the 
happy  man.  If  you  be  come  by  Painswick  High  Street 
you'll  have  seen  his  name  up  over  the  shop  door. 

LORD  LOVEL.  Miss  Clara — Miles  Hooper — No,  I 
can't  believe  it. 

THOMAS  .  [Pointing  towards  JOAN  and  MILES  .  ]  There 
they  be — the  both  of  them.  Turtle  doves  on  the  same 
branch.  You're  right  welcome,  master,  to  sit  down 
along  of  we  as  one  of  the  family  on  this  occasion. 

LORD  LOVEL.  [Looking  at  JOAN  who  has  suddenly 
dropped  her  fan  and  is  leaning  back  ivith  a  look  of  suppli- 
cation towards  CLARA.]  I  must  have  come  to  the  wrong 
place— that's  not  the  Miss  Clara  Spring  I  know: 


64  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  iv 

MILES.  [Bending  over  JOAN.]  My  sweet  Missy  has 
no  acquaintance  with  this  gentleman,  I  am  sure. 

[LORD  LOVEL  suddenly  turns  round  and  per- 
ceives CLARA  seated  by  MAGGIE  at  the  table. 
He  quickly  goes  towards  her,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

LORD  LOVEL.  Miss  Clara.  Tell  me  what  is  going  on. 
[Looking  at  her  cap  and  apron.]  Why  have  you  dressed 
yourself  like  this  ? 

THOMAS.  Come,  come.  There  seems  to  be  some  sort 
of  a  hitch  here.  The  young  gentleman  has  very  likely 
stopped  a  bit  too  long  at  the  Spotted  Cow  on  his  way  up. 

JOAN.  [Very  faintly,  looking  at  CLARA.]  O  do  you 
stand  by  me  now. 

CLARA.  [Lays  her  hand  on  LORD  LOVEL'S  arm.] 
Come  with  me,  my  lord.  I  think  I  can  explain  every- 
thing if  you  will  only  step  outside  with  me.  Come — 
[She  leads  him  swiftly  through  the  door  which  GEORGE  shuts 
behind  them.] 

[JOAN  leans  back  in  her  chair  as  though  she  were 
going  to  faint. 

THOMAS.  Well,  now — but  that's  a  smartish  wench, 
getting  him  out  so  quiet,  like.  George,  you'd  best  step 
after  them  to  see  as  the  young  man  don't  annoy  her  in 
any  way. 

EMILY.  That  young  person  can  take  good  care  of 
herself.  Sit  you  down,  Thomas  and  George,  and  get 
on  with  your  eating,  if  you  can. 

JESSIE.  Why  did  he  think  Joan  was  our  aunt, 
mother  ? 

EMILY.  'Cause  he  was  in  that  state  when  a  man 
don't  know  his  right  leg  from  his  left  arm. 

GEORGE.  [Who  has  remained  standing.]  Look  you 
here,  Master  Thomas — see  here  mistress.  'Tis  time  as 
there  was  an  end  of  this  cursed  play  acting,  or  whatever 
'tis  called. 

EMILY.  Play  acting  there  never  has  been  in  my 
house,  George,  I'd  like  for  you  to  know. 

GEORGE.     0  yes  there  have  been,  mistress.    And  'tis 


ACT  iv  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  65 

time  it  was  finished.  [Pointing  to  JOAN.]  You  just 
take  and  ask  that  young  person  what  she  do  mean  by 
tricking  herself  out  in  Miss  Clara's  gowns  and  what  not, 
and  by  having  herself  called  by  Miss  Clara's  own  name. 

MILES.  [Taking  JOAN'S  hand  in  his.]  My  sweet  Miss 
must  pay  no  attention  to  the  common  fellow.  I  dare 
him  to  speak  like  that  of  my  little  lady  bride. 

GEORGE.  A  jay  bird  in  peacock's  feathers,  that's 
what  'tis.  And  she's  took  you  all  in,  the  every  one  of 
you. 

JESSIE.  0  George,  isn't  she  really  our  aunt  from 
London  ? 

GEORGE.    No,  that  she  baint,  Miss  Jessie. 

THOMAS.  Come,  come,  my  lad.  I  never  knew  you 
act  so  afore. 

EMILY.  'Tis  clear  where  he  have  spent  his  time  this 
afternoon. 

LUKE.  Nay,  nay,  I  never  did  see  George  inside  of  the 
Spotted  Cow  in  all  the  years  I've  known  of  him.  George 
baint  made  to  that  shape. 

ROBIN.    Then  who  is  Aunt  Clara,  George  ? 

GEORGE.  She  who  be  just  gone  from  out  of  the  room, 
Master  Robin,  and  none  other. 

THOMAS.     Come,  George,  this  talk  do  sound  so  foolish. 

GEORGE.  I  can't  help  that,  master.  Foolish  deeds 
do  call  for  foolish  words,  may  be. 

MILES.  My  pretty  Miss  is  almost  fainting,  I  declare. 
[He  pours  out  water  for  JOAN  and  bends  affectionately 
over  her.]  Put  the  drunken  fellow  outside  and  let's 
have  an  end  of  this. 

GEORGE.  [Advancing.]  Yes,  us'll  have  an  end  to  it 
very  shortly.  But  I  be  going  to  put  a  straight  question 
to  the  maid  first,  and  'tis  a  straight  answer  as  her'll 
have  to  give  me  in  reply. 

MILES.  Not  a  word,  not  a  word.  Miss  is  sadly  upset 
by  your  rude  manners. 

GEORGE.  Do  you  ask  of  the  young  lady  but  one 
thing,  Master  Hooper,  and  then  I'll  go  when  you  will. 

MILES.    Well,  my  man,  what's  that  ? 


66  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  iv 

GEORGE.  Do  you  get  her  to  speak  the  name  as  was 
given  she  at  baptism,  Mister  Hooper. 

MILES.  This  is  madness.  My  pretty  Miss  shall  not 
be  teased  by  such  a  question.  Thomas,  you'll  have  to 
get  this  stupid  fellow  locked  up,  or  something. 

GEORGE.  [Angrily.}  Her  shall  say  it,  if  I  stands  here 
all  night. 

[JoAN  suddenly  bends  forward  and  hides  her 
face  in  her  hands,  her  form  shaken  by 
violent  weeping.  The  door  opens  and 
CLARA  enters  followed  by  LORD  LOVEL. 
She  has  taken  off  her  cap  and  apron. 

JOAN.  [Raising  her  head  and  stretching  out  her  hands 
to  CLARA.]  0  speak  for  me,  mistress.  Speak  for  me 
and  help. 

CLARA.  I  am  Clara,  she  Is  Joan.  Thomas,  Emily,  I 
pray  you  to  forgive  us  both  for  taking  you  in  like  this. 

THOMAS.    Well,  I  never  did  hear  tell  of  such  a  thing. 

EMILY.  I'm  not  going  to  believe  a  word  the  young 
person  says. 

LORD  LOVEL.  She  has  told  you  but  the  truth,  my 
good  friends. 

EMILY.  And  who  are  you,  to  put  your  tongue  into 
the  basin,  I'd  like  to  know  ? 

CLARA.  This  is  the  nephew  of  my  dear  godmother. 
Lord  Lovel  is  his  name. 

EMILY.  If  you  think  I'm  going  to  be  took  in  with 
such  nonsense,  the  more  fool  you,  I  says. 

LORD  LOVEL.  But  all  that  Miss  Clara  tells  you  is  true, 
Missis  Spring.  She  and  her  serving  maid,  for  certain 
reasons  of  their  own,  agreed  to  change  parts  for  a  few 
days. 

THOMAS.  [Turning  to  JOAN.]  Is  this  really  so,  my 
maid  ? 

[JoAN  bows  her  head,  her  handkerchief  still 
covering  her  face. 

THOMAS.  [To  CLARA.]  Who  ever  would  have  thought 
on  such  a  thing  ? 

CLARA.  'Twas  a  foolish  enough  thing,  but  no  harm 
is  done.  Look  up,  Joan,  and  do  not  cry  so  pitifully. 


ACT  iv  BUSHES   AND    BRIARS  67 

JOAN.  [Looking  up  at  MILES.]  You'll  never  go  and 
change  towards  me  now  that  we're  most  as  good  as  wed, 
will  you,  Mister  Hooper  ? 

MILES.  [Rising  and  speaking  with  cold  deliberation.] 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  the  honour  to  wish  you  all 
a  very  pleasant  evening. 

THOMAS.  Come,  come  Miles,  we  be  all  a  bit  turned 
in  the  head,  it  seems.  But  things'll  settle  back  to  their 
right  places  if  you  gives  them  a  chance.  Sit  you  down 
and  take  a  drink  of  sommat. 

EMILY.  Don't  be  so  foolish,  Thomas.  As  if  a  man 
what's  been  stung  by  a  wasp  would  care  to  sit  himself 
down  on  a  hornet's  nest. 

MILES.  You  are  perfectly  right,  madam.  This  is  no 
place  for  me.  I  have  been  sported  with.  My  good 
name  has  been  treated  as  a  jest. 

JOAN.  0  Mister  Hooper,  'twas  my  doing,  all  of  it, 
but  I  did  it  for  the  best,  I  did. 

MILES.  [Going  to  the  door.]  Thank  you,  my  good 
woman.  Next  time  you  want  to  play  a  little  prank  like 
this,  I  beg  that  you  will  select  your  partner  with  more 
care.  The  name  of  Hooper  is  not  a  suitable  one  to  toy 
with,  let  me  tell  you. 

ROBIN.  Aren't  you  going  to  marry  her  then,  Mister 
Hooper  ? 

MILES.     I  am  not,  Master  Robin. 

JESSIE.  You  said  as  you  could  tell  a  real  lady  by  her 
ways,  but  you  couldn't  very  well,  could  he,  Mother  ? 

[MiLES,  covering  his  mortification  with  sarcastic 
bows  made  to  the  right  and  left,  goes  out. 
JOAN  leans  back  almost  fainting  in  her 
chair. 

LTJKE.  [Taking  her  hand.]  This  is  the  finest  hearing 
in  all  the  world  for  me,  Miss — Miss  Joan. 

JOAN.     0  Mr.  Jenner,  how  deep  you  must  despise  me. 

LUKE.  And  that  I'd  never  do,  though  I'm  blest  if  I 
know  why  you  did  it. 

CLARA.  It  was  as  much  my  fault  as  hers,  Mister 
Jenner.  There  were  things  that  each  of  us  wanted,  and 


68  BUSHES   AND    BRIARS  ACT  iv 

that  we  thought  we  might  get,  by  changing  places,  one 
with  the  other. 

THOMAS.  [To  CLARA.]  Well,  my  maid,  I'm  blessed 
if  I  do  know  what  you  was  a  hunting  about  for,  dressed 
up  as  a  serving  wench. 

CLARA.  [Turning  a  little  towards  GEORGE.]  I  thought 
to  find  something  which  was  mine  when  I  was  a  little 
child,  but  which  I  lost. 

JESSIE.  O  Georgie  do  know  how  to  find  things  which 
is  lost.  'Twas  he  as  brought  back  the  yellow  pullet  when 
her  had  strayed  off. 

ROBIN.  Yes.  And  'twas  George  as  did  find  your 
blue  hair  ribbon  Aunt  Clara,  when  it  was  dropped  in  the 
hayfield. 

JESSIE.  I  believe  as  Georgie  knowed  which  of  them 
was  our  aunt  all  the  time. 

ROBIN.     I  believe  it  too. 

THOMAS.  Why,  George,  you  sly  dog,  what  put  you 
on  the  scent,  like  ? 

GEORGE.  'Twas  not  one,  but  many  things.  And  if 
you  wants  a  clear  proof  [Turning  to  CLARA] — put  back 
the  laces  of  your  sleeve,  Miss  Clara. 

CLARA.    What  for,  George  ? 

GEORGE.  Whilst  you  was  a-doing  of  the  taters,  this 
morning,  you  did  pull  up  your  sleeves.  'Twas  then  I 
held  the  proof.  Not  that  'twas  needed  for  me,  like. 

[CLARA  pushes  up  both  her  sleeves,  and  holds 
out  her  arms  towards  GEORGE. 

GEORGE.  [Pointing  to  the  scar.]  There  'tis — there's 
where  th'  old  gander  have  left  his  mark. 

THE  CHILDREN.  [Getting  up.]  Where,  where  !  O  do 
let  us  see ! 

[They  run  round  to  where  CLARA  stands  and  look 
eagerly  at  the  mark  on  her  arm  which  she 
shews  to  them. 

THOMAS.  George,  my  lad,  you  baint  th'only  one  as 
can  play  fox. 

EMILY.  Don't  you  be  so  set  up  as  to  think  as  you 
can,  Thomas.  For  a  more  foolish  figure  of  a  goose  never 


ACT  iv  BUSHES   AND    BRIARS  69 

was  cut.  A  man  might  tell  when  'twas  his  own  sister,  if 
so  be  as  he  had  his  full  senses  upon  him. 

THOMAS.  Never  you  mind,  Emily.  What  I  says  to 
George  is,  he  baint  th'only  fox.  How  now,  my  lad  ? 

GEORGE.     I  don't  see  what  you  be  driving  at,  master. 

THOMAS.  [Slyly.]  What  about  that  bit  of  blue 
ribbon,  George  ? 

CLARA.  Yes,  Thomas.  Ask  Georgie  if  he  will  give 
it  back  to  me. 

GEORGE.  [Stepping  forward  till  he  is  by  CLARA'S  side.] 
No,  and  that  I  will  not  do.  'Tis  little  enough  as  I  holds, 
but  what  little,  I'll  keep  it. 

CLARA.  [To  GEORGE.]  Those  words  are  like  a  frail 
bridge  on  which  I  can  stand  for  a  moment.  Georgie,  do 
you  remember  the  days  when  you  used  to  lead  me  by  the 
hand  into  the  deep  parts  of  the  wood,  lifting  me  over  the 
briars  and  the  brambles  so  that  I  should  not  be  hurt  by 
their  thorns  ? 

GEORGE.  Hark  you  here,  Clara.  This  once  I'll  speak. 
I  never  had  but  one  true  love,  and  that  was  a  little  maid 
what  would  run  through  the  woods  and  over  all  the 
meadows,  her  hand  in  mine.  I  learnt  she  the  note  of 
every  bird.  And  when  th'  evening  was  come,  us  would 
watch  together  till  th'  old  mother  badger  did  get  from 
out  of  her  hole,  and  start  hunting  in  the  long  grasses. 

CLARA.  [Taking  GEORGE'S  hand.]  Then,  Georgie, 
there  was  no  need  for  the  disguise  that  I  put  upon 
myself. 

GEORGE.  Do  you  think  as  the  moon  can  hide  her 
light  when  there  baint  no  cloud  upon  the  sky,  Clara  ? 

CLARA.  Georgie,  I  went  in  fear  of  what  this  gold  and 
silver  might  raise  up  between  you  and  me. 

THOMAS.  That's  all  finished  and  done  with  now,  my 
maid.  If  I'd  a  hundred  sisters,  George  should  have  the 
pick  of  them,  he  should. 

EMILY.  Thank  you.  Thomas.  One  of  your  sisters 
is  about  enough. 

LUKE.  [Who  has  been  sitting  with  JOAN'S  hand  in  his.] 
Hark  you  here,  mistress.  There's  many  a  cloudy 


70  BUSHES    AND    BRIARS  ACT  iv 

morning  turns  out  a  sunshiny  day.  Baint  that  a  true 
saying,  Joan  ? 

JOAN.  [Looking  up  radiantly.]  O  that  it  is,  dear 
Luke. 

LORD  LOVBL.  Miss  Clara,  it  seems  that  there  is 
nothing  more  to  be  said. 

EMILY.  And  that's  the  most  sensible  thing  as  has 
been  spoke  this  long  while.  Thomas,  your  sister  favours 
you  in  being  a  poor,  grizzling  sort  of  a  muddler.  She 
might  have  took  up  with  this  young  man,  who  has  a  very 
respectable  appearance. 

LORD  LOVEL.  [Coming  forward  to  GEORGE  and  shaking 
his  hand.]  I'm  proud  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir. 

EMILY.  [Rising  angrily.]  Come  Thomas,  come  Luke, 
come  Clara.  Us  might  be  a  barn  full  of  broody  hens  the 
way  we  be  set  around  of  this  here  table.  'Twill  be  mid- 
night afore  the  things  is  cleared  away  and  washed  up. 

THOMAS.  What  if  it  be,  Emily.  'Tisn't  very  often 
as  I  gets  the  chance  of  minding  how  'twas  in  times  gone 
past.  Ah,  I  was  a  young  man  in  those  days,  too,  I  was. 

EMILY.  And  'tis  a  rare  old  addle  head  as  you  be  got 
now,  Thomas. 

JESSIE.  [Slipping  her  hand  into  THOMAS'S.]  0  do  let 
us  sit  up  till  midnight,  Dad. 

ROBIN.     I  shall  eat  a  smartish  lot  more  if  we  does. 

[Curtain.] 


MY    MAN   JOHN 


L.  T.  3 


CHARACTERS. 

MBS.  GARDNER. 

WILLIAM,  her  son. 

JOHN,  his  farm  hand. 

SUSAN,  their  maid. 

JULIA,  the  owner  of  Luther's  Farm. 

LAURA. 

CHRIS, 


NAT, 
TANSIE, 


gipsies. 


MY    MAN    JOHN. 


ACT   I.— Scene    1. 

The  garden  of  the  Road  Farm.  To  the  right  an  arbour 
covered  with  roses.  MRS.  GARDNER  is  seated  in  it, 
knitting.  WILLIAM  is  tying  up  flowers  and  watering 
them. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  And  you  have  come  to  a  ripe  age 
when  'tis  the  plain  duty  of  a  man  to  turn  himself 
towards  matrimony,  William. 

WILLIAM.     'Tis  a  bit  of  quiet  that  I'm  after,  Mother. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Quiet !  'tis  a  good  shaking  up  as 
you  want,  William.  Why,  you  have  got  as  set  in  your 
ways  as  last  season's  jelly. 

WILLIAM.     Then  let  me  bide  so.     'Tis  all  I  ask. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  No,  William.  I'm  got  to  be  an  old 
woman  now,  and  'tis  time  that  I  had  someone  at  my  side 
to  help  in  the  house-keeping  and  to  share  the  work. 

WILLIAM.     What's  Susan  for,  if  'tisn't  to  do  that  ? 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Susan  ?  As  idle  a  piece  of  goods 
as  ever  was  seen  on  a  summer's  day  !  No.  'Tisn't  a 
serving  maid  that  I  was  thinking  of,  but  someone  who 
should  be  of  more  account  in  the  house.  'Tis  a  daughter 
that  I'm  wanting,  William,  and  I've  picked  out  the  one 
who  is  to  my  taste. 

WILLIAM.  Then  you've  done  more  than  I  have, 
Mother. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  'Tis  the  young  person  whom  Luther 
Smith  has  left  his  farm  and  all  his  money  to.  I've  got 
my  eye  on  her  for  you,  William. 


4  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  i 

WILLIAM.  Then  you'll  please  to  put  your  eye  some- 
where else,  Mother,  for  I've  seen  them,  and  they  don't 
suit  me. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Come,  this  is  news,  William.  Pray 
where  did  you  meet  ? 

WILLIAM.  'Twas  when  I  was  in  church  last  Sunday. 
In  they  came,  the  two  young  maids  from  Luthers,  like 
a  couple  of  gallinie  fowls,  the  way  they  did  step  up  over 
the  stones  and  shake  the  plumes  of  them  this  way  and 
that.  I  don't  hold  with  fancy  tricks.  I  never  could 
abide  them.  No  foreign  wenches  for  me.  And  that's 
about  all. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  "Tis  true  they  are  from  town, 
but  none  the  worse  for  that,  William.  You  have  got 
sadly  rude  and  cumbersome  in  your  ways,  or  you 
wouldn't  feel  as  you  do  towards  a  suitable  young  person. 
'Tis  from  getting  about  with  John  so  much,  I  think. 

WILLIAM.  Now  look  you  here,  Mother,  I've  got  used 
to  my  own  ways,  and  when  a  man's  got  set  in  his  own 
ways,  'tis  best  to  leave  him  there.  I'm  past  the  age  for 
marrying,  and  you  ought  to  know  this  better  than 
anyone. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  I  know  that  'tis  a  rare  lot  of  foolish- 
ness that  you  do  talk,  William,  seeing  as  you're  not  a 
year  past  thirty  yet.  But  if  you  can't  be  got  to  wed  for 
love  of  a  maid,  perhaps  you'll  do  so  for  love  of  a  purse, 
when  'tis  fairly  filled. 

WILLIAM.  There's  always  been  enough  for  you  and 
me  so  far,  Mother. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Ah,  but  that  won't  last  for  ever. 
I'm  got  an  old  woman,  and  I  can't  do  with  the  dairy  nor 
the  poultry  as  I  was  used  to  do.  And  things  have  not 
the  same  prices  to  them  as  'twas  a  few  years  gone  by. 
And  last  year's  season  was  the  worst  that  I  remember. 

WILLIAM.  So  'twas.  But  so  long  as  there's  a  roof 
over  our  heads  and  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  bit  of  garden 
for  me  to  work  on,  where's  the  harm,  Mother  ? 

MRS.  GARDNER.  0  you  put  me  out  of  all  patience, 
William.  Where's  the  rent  to  come  from  if  we  go  on 


ACT  i  MY   MAN   JOHN  5 

like  this  ?  And  the  clothing,  and  the  food  ?  And 
John's  wages,  and  your  flower  seeds,  if  it  comes  to  that, 
for  you  have  got  terrible  wasteful  over  the  flowers. 

WILLIAM.  I  wish  you'd  take  it  quieter,  Mother. 
Look  at  yon  bed  of  musk,  'tis  a  grand  smell  that  comes 
up  from  it  all  around. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  No,  William.  I've  no  eye  for  musk, 
nor  nose  to  smell  at  it  either  till  you've  spoken  the  word 
that  I  require. 

WILLIAM.     Best  let  things  bide  as  they  are,  Mother. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  I'll  leave  you  no  rest  till  you  do  as  I 
wish,  William.  I'm  got  an  old  woman,  and  'tis  hard  I 
should  be  denied  in  aught  that  I've  set  my  heart  upon. 

WILLIAM.  Please  to  set  it  upon  something  different, 
Mother,  for  I'm  not  a  marrying  man,  and  John  he'll  tell 
you  the  same  thing. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  John  !  I'm  sick  of  the  very  name 
of  him.  I  can't  think  how  'tis  that  you  can  lower  your- 
self by  being  so  close  with  a  common  farm  hand,  William. 

WILLIAM.  Ah,  'twould  be  a  rare  hard  matter  to  find 
the  equal  to  John,  Mother.  Tis  of  gold  all  through, 
and  every  bit  of  him,  that  he  is  made.  You  don't  see 
many  like  John  these  days,  that's  the  truth. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Well,  then,  John,  won't  be  here 
much  longer,  for  we  shan't  have  anything  to  give  him 
if  things  go  on  like  this. 

WILLIAM.  I'd  wed  forty  wives  sooner  than  lose  John 
— and  that  I  would. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  I'm  not  asking  you  to  wed  forty. 
'Tis  only  one. 

WILLIAM.    And  that  one  ? 

MRS.  GARDNER.  The  young  person  who's  got  Luther's 
farm.  Her  name  is  Julia. 

WILLIAM.  [Leaving  his  flower  border  and  walking  up 
and  down  thoughtfully.]  Would  she  be  the  one  with  the 
cherry  colour  ribbons  to  her  gown  ? 

MRS.  GARDNER.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I  was  not  at 
church  last  Sunday. 

WILLIAM.     Or  t'other  one  in  green  ? 


6  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  i 

MBS.  GARDNER.  You  appear  to  have  used  your  eyes 
pretty  well,  William. 

WILLIAM.  0, 1  can  see  a  smartish  bit  about  me  when 
I  choose. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  T'other  wench  is  but  the  house- 
keeper. 

WILLIAM.    Where  did  you  get  that  from  ? 

MRS.  GARDNER.  'Twas  Susan  who  told  me.  She 
got  it  off  someone  down  in  the  village. 

WILLIAM.  Well,  which  of  the  maids  would  have  had 
the  cherry-coloured  ribbons  to  her,  Mother  ? 

MRS.  GARDNER.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  but  if  you 
go  up  there  courting  this  afternoon,  may  happen  that 
you'll  find  out. 

WILLIAM.  This  afternoon  ?  0,  that's  much  too 
sudden  like. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Recollect,  your 
fancy  has  been  set  on  her  since  Sunday. 

WILLIAM.  Come,  Mother,  you  can't  expect  a  man  to 
jump  into  the  river  all  of  a  sudden  like  this. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  I  expect  you  to  go  up  there  this  very 
day  and  to  commence  telling  her  of  your  feelings. 

WILLIAM.  But  I've  got  no  feelings  that  I  can  tell 
her  of,  Mother. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Then  you'll  please  to  find  some, 
Wilh'am. 

WILLIAM.  'Tis  a  thing  that  in  all  my  life  I've  never 
done  as  to  go  visiting  of  a  strange  wench  of  an  afternoon. 

MRS.  GARDNER.    Then  'tis  time  you  did  begin. 

WILLIAM.    And  what's  more,  I'll  not  do  it,  neither. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Then  I  must  tell  John  that  we  have 
no  further  need  of  his  services,  for  where  the  money  to 
pay  him  is  to  come  from,  I  don't  know. 

[She  rolls  up  her  knitting  and  rises. 

WILLIAM.  Stop  a  moment,  Mother — stop  a  moment. 
Maybe  'twon't  be  so  bad  when  I've  got  more  used  to  the 
idea.  You've  pitched  it  upon  me  so  sudden  like. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Rent  day  has  pitched  upon  me  more 
sudden,  William. 


ACT  i  MY   MAN   JOHN  7 

WILLIAM.  Look  you,  Mother,  I'll  get  and  turn  it 
about  in  my  mind  a  bit.  And,  maybe,  I'll  talk  it  over 
with  John.  I  can't  do  more,  can  I  now  ? 

MBS.  GARDNER.  Talk  it  over  with  whom  you  please, 
William.  But  remember  'tis  this  very  afternoon  that 
you  have  to  start  courting.  I've  laid  your  best  clothes 
out  all  ready  on  your  bed. 

WILLIAM.  [Sighing  heavily.]  0  then  I  count  there's 
no  way  out  of  it.  But  how  am  I  to  bring  it  off  ?  'Tis 
that  I'd  like  to  know. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Maybe  your  man  will  be  able  to  give 
you  some  suitable  advice.  Such  things  are  beyond  me, 
I'm  afraid. 

[She  gathers  up  her  work  things,  and  with  a  con- 
temptuous look  at  her  son,  she  goes  slowly 
out  of  the  garden. 

[WILLIAM  remains  on  the  path  lost  in  perturbed 
thought.  Suddenly  he  goes  to  the  gate  and 
calls  loudly. 

WILLIAM.    John,  John ! 

JOHN.     [From  afar.]    Yes,  master. 

WILLIAM.  [Calling.]  Come  you  here,  John,  as  quick 
as  you  can  run. 

JOHN.    That  I  will,  master. 

[JOHN  hurries  into  the  garden. 

WILLIAM.    John,  I'm  powerful  upset. 

JOHN.  Mistress's  fowls  bain't  got  among  the  flowers 
again,  be  they,  Master  William  ? 

WILLIAM.  No,  no,  John.  'Tisn't  so  bad  as  that. 
But  I'm  in  a  smartish  fix,  I  can  tell  you. 

JOHN.     How's  that,  master  ? 

WILLIAM.    John,  did  you  ever  go  a'courting  ? 

JOHN.     Well,  master,  that's  a  thing  to  ask  a  man  ! 

WILLIAM.  "Tis  a  terrible  serious  matter,  John.  Did 
you  ever  go  ? 

JOHN.    Courting  ? 

WILLIAM.    Yes. 

JOHN.  Why,  I  count  as  I  have  went  a  score  of  times, 
master. 


8  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  i 

WILLIAM.  A  score  of  times,  John  !  But  that  was 
before  you  were  got  to  the  age  you  are  now  ? 

JOHN.     Before  that,  and  now,  master. 

WILLIAM.    And  now,  John  ? 

JOHN.    To  be  sure,  master. 

WILLIAM.    Then  you  know  how  'tis  done  ? 

JOHN.    Ah,  that  I  does,  master. 

WILLIAM.    Well,  John,  you're  the  man  for  me. 

JOHN.  Lord  bless  us,  master,  but  what  have  you  to 
do  with  courting  ? 

WILLIAM.  You  may  well  ask  me,  John.  Why,  look 
you  here — until  this  very  morning,  you  would  say  I 
was  a  quiet  and  a  peaceable  man,  with  the  right  place 
for  everything  and  everything  in  its  place. 

JOHN.  Ah,  and  that  you  was,  Master  William.  And 
a  time  for  all  things  too,  and  a  decenter,  proper  gentle- 
man no  man  ever  served — that's  truth. 

WILLIAM.  Ah,  John — the  mistress  has  set  her  will 
to  change  all  this. 

JOHN.    Now,  you'd  knock  me  down  with  a  feather. 

WILLIAM.  That  she  has,  John.  I've  got  to  set  out 
courting — a  thing  I've  never  thought  to  do  in  all  my 
living  days. 

JOHN.  That  I'll  be  bound  you  have  not,  Master 
William,  though  a  finer  gentleman  than  yourself  is  not 
to  be  found  in  all  the  country  side. 

WILLIAM.  [With  shy  eagerness.]  Is  that  how  I 
appear  to  you,  John  ? 

JOHN.  Ah,  and  that  you  does,  master.  And  'tis 
the  wonder  with  all  for  miles  around  as  how  you've 
been  and  kept  yourself  to  yourself  like  this,  so  many 
years. 

WILLIAM.  Well,  John,  it  appears  that  I'm  to  pass  out 
of  my  own  keeping.  My  Sunday  clothes  are  all  laid  out 
upon  the  bed. 

JOHN.  Bless  my  soul,  Master  William,  and  'tis  but 
Thursday  too. 

WILLIAM.  Isn't  that  a  proper  day  for  this  sort  of 
business,  John  ? 


ACT  i  MY   MAN   JOHN  9 

JOHN.  I've  always  been  used  to  Saturday  myself, 
but  with  a  gentleman  'tis  different  like. 

WILLIAM.  Well,  John,  there's  nothing  in  this  day  or 
that  as  far  as  I  can  see.  A  bad  job  is  a  bad  job,  no 
matter  what,  and  the  day  of  it  does  make  but  very 
little  difference. 

JOHN.  You're  right  there,  master.  But  if  I  may  be 
so  bold,  where  is  it  as  you  be  going  off  courting  this 
afternoon  ? 

WILLIAM.  Ah — now  you  and  me  will  have  a  straight 
talk  one  with  another — for  'tis  to  you  I  look,  John,  for  to 
pull  me  out  of  this  fix  where  the  mistress  has  gone  and 
put  me. 

JOHN.  And  that  I'll  do,  master — with  all  the  will  in 
the  world. 

WILLIAM.  Well  then,  John,  'tis  to  be  one  of  those 
maids  from  strange  parts  who  are  come  to  live  at  old 
Luther's,  up  yonder. 

JOHN.  Ah,  I  seed  the  pair  of  them  in  church  last 
Sunday.  Fine  maids,  the  both  of  them,  and  properly 
suitable  if  you  was  to  ask  me. 

WILLIAM.  "Tis  only  the  one  I've  got  to  court, 
John. 

JOHN.  And  I  reckon  that's  one  too  many,  Master 
William. 

WILLIAM.  You're  right  there,  John.  'Tis  Mistress 
Julia  I've  to  go  at. 

JOHN.  And  which  of  the  pair  would  that  be,  Master 
William  ? 

WILLIAM.  That  one  with  the  cherry  colour  ribbons  to 
her  gown,  I  believe. 

JOHN.  Ah,  t'other  was  plainer  in  her  dressing,  and 
did  keep  the  head  of  her  bent  smartish  low  on  her  book, 
so  that  a  man  couldn't  get  a  fair  look  upon  she. 

WILLIAM.  That  would  be  the  housekeeper  or  summat. 
'Tis  Julia,  who  has  the  old  man's  money,  I'm  to  court. 

JOHN.  Well,  master,  I'll  come  along  with  you  a  bit 
of  the  road,  to  keep  your  heart  up  like. 

WILLIAM.    You  must  do  more  than  that  for  me,  John. 


10  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

You've  got  to  learn  me  how  the  courting  is  done  before 
I  set  off. 

JOHN.  Why,  master,  courting  baint  a  thing  what 
wants  much  learning,  that's  the  truth. 

WILLIAM.  Tis  all  new  to  me,  John.  I'm  blessed 
if  I  know  how  to  commence.  Why,  the  thought  of  it 
at  once  sends  me  hot  all  over  ;  and  then  as  cold  again. 

JOHN.  You  start  and  get  your  clothes  on,  master. 
'Tis  half  the  battle — clothes.  What  a  man  cannot 
bring  out  of  his  mouth  of  a  Saturday  will  fall  out  easy 
as  anything  on  the  Sunday  with  his  best  coat  to  his 
back. 

WILLIAM.  No,  John.  The  clothes  won't  help  me  in 
this  fix.  You  must  tell  me  how  to  start  once  I  get  to  the 
farm  and  am  by  the  door. 

JOHN.    You  might  take  a  nosegay  with  you,  master. 

WILLIAM.  I  might.  And  yet,  'tis  a  pity  to  cut  the 
blooms  for  naught. 

JOHN.  I  always  takes  a  nosegay  with  me,  of  a  Satur- 
day night. 

WILLIAM.  Why,  John,  who  is  it  that  you  are  courting 
then? 

JOHN.  'Tis  that  wench  Susan,  since  you  ask  me, 
master.  But  not  a  word  of  it  to  th'  old  mistress. 

WILLIAM.     I'll  not  mention  it,  John. 

JOHN.    Thank  you  kindly,  master. 

WILLIAM.  And  now,  John,  when  the  nosegay's  all 
gathered  and  the  flowers  bunched,  what  else  should  I  do  ? 

JOHN.  Well,  then  you  gives  it  her  when  you  gets  to 
the  door.  And  very  like  she'll  ask  you  into  the  parlour, 
seeing  as  you  be  a  particular  fine  looking  gentleman. 

WILLIAM.  I  could  not  stand  that,  John.  I've  no 
tongue  to  me  within  a  strange  house. 

JOHN.  Well  then,  maybe  as  you  and  she  will  sit  aside 
of  one  another  in  an  arbour  in  the  garden,  or  sommat  of 
the  sort. 

WILLIAM.    Yes,  John.    And  what  next  ? 

JOHN.  I'm  blessed  if  I  do  know,  master.  You  go 
along  and  commence. 


ACT  i  MY   MAN   JOHN  11 

WILLIAM.  No,  John,  and  that  I  won't.  Not  till  I 
know  more  about  it  like. 

JOHN.  Well,  master,  I'm  fairly  puzzled  hard  to  tell 
you. 

WILLIAM.  I  have  the  very  thought,  John.  Do  you 
bring  Susan  out  here.  I'll  place  myself  behind  the 
shrubs,  and  do  you  get  and  court  her  as  well  as  you  know 
how  ;  and  maybe  that  will  learn  me  something. 

JOHN.  Susan's  a  terrible  hard  wench  to  court,  Master 
William. 

WILLIAM.     'Twill  make  the  better  lesson,  John. 

JOHN.     'Tis  a  stone  in  place  of  a  heart  what  Susan's 

got-      . 

WILLIAM.  'Twill  very  likely  be  the  same  with  Julia. 
Go  and  bring  her  quickly,  John. 

[WILLIAM  places  himself  behind  the  arbour. 

JOHN.  As  you  will,  master — but  Susan  have  been 
wonderful  nasty  in  her  ways  with  me  of  late.  'Tis  my 
belief  as  she  have  took  up  with  one  of  they  low  gipsy 
lads  what  have  been  tenting  up  yonder,  against  the 
wood. 

WILLIAM.  Well,  'twill  be  your  business  to  win  her 
back  to  you,  John.  See — am  I  properly  hid,  behind  the 
arbour  ? 

JOHN.     Grandly   hid,  master — I'll  go  and  fetch  the 

wench.  [JOHN  leaves  the  garden. 

[WILLIAM  remains  hidden  behind  the  arbour. 

After  a  jew  minutes  JOHN  returns  pulling 

SUSAN  by  the  hand. 

SUSAN.  And  what  are  you  about,  bringing  me  into 
master's  flower  garden  at  this  time  of  the  morning  ?  I 
should  like  for  mistress  to  look  out  of  one  of  the  windows 
—you'd  get  into  fine  trouble,  and  me  too,  John. 

JOHN.  Susan,  my  dear,  you  be  a  passing  fine  wench 
to  look  upon,  and  that's  the  truth. 

SUSAN.  And  is  it  to  tell  me  such  foolishness  that 
you've  brought  me  all  the  way  out  of  the  kitchen  ? 

JOHN.  [Stooping  and  picking  a  dandelion.]  And  to 
give  you  this  flower,  dear  Susan. 


12  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  i 

SUSAN.  [Throwing  it  down.]  A  common  thing  like 
that !  I'll  have  none  of  it. 

JOHN.  'Tis  prime  you  looks  when  you  be  angered, 
Susan.  The  blue  fire  do  fairly  leap  from  your  eyes. 

SUSAN.  0  you're  enough  to  anger  a  saint,  John. 
What  have  you  brought  me  here  for  ? 

JOHN.  I  thought  I'd  like  to  tell  you  as  you  was  such 
a  fine  wench,  Susan.  And  that  I  did  never  see  a  finer. 

SUSAN.  You  do  look  at  me  as  though  I  was  yonder 
prize  heifer  what  Master  William's  so  powerful  set  on. 

JOHN.  Ah — and  'tis  true  as  you  have  sommat  of  the 
look  of  she  when  you  stands  a  pawing  of  the  ground 
as  you  be  now. 

SUSAN.  Is  it  to  insult  me  that  you've  got  me  away 
from  the  kitchen,  John  ? 

JOHN.  Nay — 'tis  to  tell  you  that  you  be  a  rare 
smartish  wench — and  I'll  go  along  to  the  church  with 
you  any  day  as  you  will  name,  my  dear. 

SUSAN.  That  you  won't,  John.  I  don't  mind  taking 
a  nosegay  of  flowers  from  you  now  and  then,  and  hearing 
you  speak  nice  to  me  over  the  garden  gate  of  an  evening, 
but  I'm  not  a-going  any  further  along  the  road  with 
you.  That's  all.  [She  moves  towards  the  house. 

JOHN.  Now,  do  you  bide  a  moment  longer,  Susan — 
and  let  me  say  sommat  of  all  they  feelings  which  be 
stirring  like  a  nest  of  young  birds  in  my  heart  for  you. 

SUSAN.  They  may  stir  within  you  like  an  old  waspes 
nest  for  all  I  care,  John. 

JOHN.  Come,  Susan,  put  better  words  to  your  tongue 
nor  they.  You  can  speak  honey  sweet  when  it  do  please 
you  to. 

SUSAN.  'Tis  mustard  as  is  the  right  food  for  you  this 
morning,  John. 

JOHN.  I  gets  enough  of  that  from  mistress — I  mean 
— well — I  mean — [in  a  loud,  clear  voice] — 0  mistress  is  a 
wonderful  fine  woman  and  no  mistake. 

SUSAN .  You  won't  say  as  much  when  she  comes  round 
the  corner  and  catches  you  a  wasting  of  your  time  like 
this,  John. 


ACT  i  MY   MAN   JOHN  13 

JOHN.  Is  it  a  waste  of  time  to  stand  a-drinking  in  the 
sweetness  of  the  finest  rose  what  blooms,  Susan  ? 

SUSAN.    Is  that  me,  John  ? 

JOHN.    Who  else  should  it  be,  Susan  ? 

SUSAN.  Well,  John — sometimes  I  think  there's  not 
much  amiss  with  you. 

JOHN.     0  Susan,  them  be  grand  words. 

SUSAN.  But  then  again — I  do  think  as  you  be  getting 
too  much  like  Master  William. 

JOHN.  And  a  grander  gentleman  than  he  never  went 
upon  the  earth. 

SUSAN.  Cut  and  clipped  and  trimmed  and  dry  as 
that  box  tree  yonder.  And  you  be  getting  sommat  of 
the  same  fashion  about  you,  John. 

JOHN.  Then  make  me  differenter,  Susan,  you  know 
the  way. 

SUSAN.     I'm  not  so  sure  as  I  do,  John. 

JOHN.    Wed  me  come  Michaelmas,  Susan. 

SUSAN.  And  that  I'll  not.  And  what's  more,  I'm 
not  a-going  to  stop  here  talking  foolish  with  you  any 
longer.  I've  work  to  do  within.  [SUSAN  goes  off. 
[JOHN,  mopping  his  face  and  speaking  regret- 
fully as  WILLIAM  steps  from  behind  the 
arbour. 

JOHN.  There,  master.  That's  courting  for  you. 
That's  the  sort  of  thing.  And  a  caddh'ng  thing  it  is  too. 

WILLIAM.  But  'tis  a  thing  that  you  do  rare  finely 
and  well,  John.  And  'tis  you  and  none  other  who  shall 
do  the  job  for  me  this  afternoon,  there — that's  what 
I've  come  to  in  my  thoughts. 

JOHN.  Master,  master,  whatever  have  you  got  in 
your  head  now  ? 

WILLIAM.  See  here,  John — we'll  cut  a  nosegay  for 
you  to  carry — some  of  the  best  blooms  I'll  spare.  And 
you,  who  know  what  courting  is,  and  who  have  such 
fine  words  to  your  tongue,  shall  step  up  at  once  and  do 
the  business  for  me. 

JOHN.  Master,  if  'twas  an  acre  of  stone  as  you'd 
asked  me  to  plough,  I'd  sooner  do  it  nor  a  job  like  this. 


14  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  i 

WILLIAM.  John,  you've  been  a  good  friend  to  me  all 
the  years  that  you  have  lived  on  the  farm,  you'll  not 
go  and  fail  me  now. 

JOHN.  Why  not  court  the  lady  with  your  own  tongue, 
Master  William.  'T would  have  better  language  to  it 
nor  what  I  can  give  the  likes  of  she. 

WILLIAM.  Your  words  are  all  right,  John.  'Tisn't 
as  though  sensible  speech  was  needed.  You  do  know 
what's  wanted  with  the  maids,  whilst  I  have  never  been 
used  to  them  in  any  way  whatever.  So  let's  say  no 
more  about  it,  but  commence  gathering  the  flowers. 

JOHN.  [Heavily,  but  resigned.]  Since  you  say  so, 
master.  [They  begin  to  gather  flowers. 

WILLIAM.  What  blooms  do  young  maids  like  the 
best,  John  ? 

JOHN.    Put  in  a  sprig  of  thyme,  master. 

WILLIAM.    Yes — I  can  well  spare  that. 

JOHN.    And  a  rose  that's  half  opened,  master. 

WILLIAM.  It  goes  to  my  heart  to  have  a  rose  wasted 
on  this  business,  John. 

JOHN.  'Tain't  likely  as  you  can  get  through  courtship 
without  parting  with  sommat,  master.  Lucky  if  it 
baint  gold  as  you're  called  upon  to  spill. 

WILLIAM.    That's  true,  John — I'll  gather  the  rose — 

JOHN.  See  here,  master,  the  lily  and  the  pink.  Them 
be  brave  flowers,  the  both  of  them,  and  with  a  terrible 
fine  scent  coming  out  of  they. 

WILLIAM.  Put  them  into  the  nosegay,  John — And 
now — no  more — 'Tis  enough  waste  for  one  day. 

JOHN.  'Tis  a  smartish  lot  of  blooms  as  good  as  done 
for,  says  I. 

WILLIAM.     A  slow  sowing  and  a  quick  reaping,  John. 

JOHN.  'Tis  to  be  hoped  as  'twill  be  the  same  with  the 
lady,  master. 

WILLIAM.  There,  off  you  go,  John.  And  mind, 
'tis  her  with  the  cherry  ribbon  to  her  gown  and 
bonnet. 

JOHN.  Why,  master,  and  her  might  have  a  different 
ribbon  to  her  head  this  day,  being  that  'tis  Thursday  ? 


ACT  ii  MY   MAN   JOHN  15 

WILLIAM.  An  eye  like — like  a  bullace,  John.  And  a 
grand  colour  to  the  face  of  her  like  yon  rose. 

JOHN.  That's  enough,  Master  William.  I'll  not 
pitch  upon  the  wrong  maid,  never  fear.  And  now  I'll 
clean  myself  up  a  bit  at  the  'pump,  and  set  off  straight 
away. 

WILLIAM.  [Shaking  JOHN'S  hand.]  Good  luck  to 
you,  my  man.  And  if  you  can  bring  it  off  quiet  and 
decent  like  without  me  coming  in  till  at  the  last,  why, 
'tis  a  five  pound  note  that  you  shall  have  for  your 
trouble. 

JOHN.  You  be  a  grand  gentleman  to  serve,  Master 
William,  and  no  mistake  about  that. 

[Curtain.] 


ACT  II.— Scene  1. 

A  wood.  To  the  right  a  fallen  tree  (or  a  bench).  JOHN 
comes  from  the  left,  a  large  bunch  of  flowers  in  his 
hand. 

JOHN.  Out,  and  a  taking  of  the  air  in  the  wood,  be 
they  ?  Well,  bless  my  soul,  but  'tis  a  rare  caddling 
business  what  master's  put  upon  I.  'Tis  worse  nor  any 
job  he  have  set  me  to  in  all  the  years  I've  been  along  of 
him,  so  'tis.  But  I'm  the  one  to  bring  it  off  slick  and 
straight,  and,  bless  me,  if  I  won't  take  and  hide  myself 
by  yon  great  bush  till  I  see  the  wenches  a-coming  up. 
That'll  give  me  time  to  have  a  quiet  look  at  the  both 
and  pick  out  she  what  master's  going  a-courting  of. 

[JOHN  puts  himself  behind  some  thick  bushes  as 
JULIA  and  LAURA  come  forward.  JULIA  is 
very  simply  dressed.  Her  head  is  bare,  and 
she  is  carrying  her  white  cotton  sunbonnet. 
LAURA  wears  finer  clothes  and  her  bonnet  is 
tied  by  bright  ribbons  of  cherry  colour. 


16  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

LAURA.  [Stopping  by  the  bench.]  We'll  sit  down — 
'Tis  a  warm  day,  and  I've  had  enough  of  walking. 

[She  sinks  down  on  the,  seat. 

JULIA.  [Looking  all  round  her.]  'Tis  beautiful  and 
quiet  here.  0  this  is  ever  so  much  better  than  the  farm. 

LAURA.  The  farm !  What's  wrong  with  that,  I 
should  like  to  know  ? 

JULIA.  Everything.  'Tis  more  like  a  prison  than  a 
home  to  me.  Within  the  house  there's  always  work 
crying  out  to  be  done — and  outside  I  believe  'tis  worse 
— work — nothing  else  speaking  to  me. 

LAURA.  You're  a  sad  ungrateful  girl.  Why,  there's 
many  would  give  their  eyes  to  change  with  you. 

JULIA.  But  out  here  'tis  all  peace,  and  freedom. 
There's  naught  calling  out  to  be  done.  The  flowers 
grow  as  they  like,  and  the  breezes  move  them  this  way, 
and  that.  The  ground  is  thick  with  leaves  and  blossoms 
and  no  one  has  got  to  sweep  it,  and  the  hard  things  with 
great  noises  to  them,  like  pails  and  churns,  are  far  away 
and  clean  forgot. 

LAURA.     'Tisn't  much  use  as  you'll  be  on  the  farm. 

JULIA.  I  wish  I'd  never  come  nigh  to  it.  I  was 
happier  far  before. 

LAURA.  'Tis  a  grand  life.  You'll  see  it  as  I  do  one 
of  these  days. 

JULIA.  No,  that  I  shall  not.  Every  day  that  I  wake 
and  hear  the  cattle  lowing  beneath  my  window  I  turn 
over  on  my  pillow,  and  'tis  a  heart  of  lead  that  turns 
with  me.  The  smell  of  the  wild  flowers  in  the  fields 
calls  me,  but  'tis  to  the  dairy  I  must  go,  to  work.  And 
at  noonday,  when  the  shade  of  the  woodland  makes  me 
thirsty  for  its  coolness,  'tis  the  kitchen  I  must  be  in — 
or  picking  green  stuff  for  the  market.  And  so  on  till 
night,  when  the  limbs  of  me  can  do  no  more  and  the 
spirit  in  me  is  like  a  bird  with  the  wing  of  it  broken. 

LAURA.  You'll  harden  to  it  all  by  winter  time  right 
enough. 

JULIA.  O  I'll  never  harden  to  it.  'Tis  not  that  way 
I  am  made.  Some  girls  can  set  themselves  down  with 


ACT  ii  MY   MAN   JOHN  17 

four  walls  round  them,  and  do  their  task  nor  ask  for 
anything  beyond,  but  'tis  not  so  with  me. 

LAURA.     How  is  it  then  with  you  ? 

JULIA.  [Pointing.']  There — see  that  blue  thing 
yonder  flying  from  one  blossom  to  another.  That's 
how  'tis  with  me.  Shut  me  up  close  in  one  place,  I 
perish.  Let  me  go  free,  and  I  can  fly  and  live. 

LAURA.  You  do  talk  a  powerful  lot  of  foolishness 
that  no  one  could  understand. 

JULIA.  0,  do  not  let  us  talk  at  all.  Let  us  bide  still, 
and  get  ourselves  refreshed  by  the  sweetness  and  the 
wildness  of  the  forest. 

[JULIA  turns  away  and  gives  herself  up  to  the 
enjoyment  of  the  wood  around  her.  LAURA 
arranges  her  ribbons  and  smoothes  out  her 
gown.  Neither  of  them  speak  for  a  few 
minutes. 

LAURA.  [Looking  up  and  pointing.]  See  those 
strange  folk  over  there  ?  What  are  they  ? 

JULIA.  [Looking  in  the  same  direction.]  I  know 
them.  They  are  gipsies  from  the  hill  near  to  us. 

LAURA.  They  should  be  driven  away  then.  I  don't 
like  such  folk  roosting  around. 

JULIA.  But  I  do.  They  are  friends  to  me.  Many's 
the  time  I  have  run  out  at  dusk  to  speak  with  them  as 
they  sit  round  their  fire. 

LAURA.  Then  you  didn't  ought  to  have  done  so. 
Let's  get  off  now,  before  they  come  up. 

JULIA.  No,  no.  Let  us  talk  to  them  all.  [Calling.] 
Tansie  and  Chris,  come  you  here  and  sit  down  alongside 
of  us.  [CHRIS,  NAT,  and  TANSIE  come  up. 

CHRIS.  Good  morning  to  you,  mistress.  'Tis  a  fine 
brave  day,  to-day. 

JULIA.  That  it  is,  Chris.  There  never  was  so  fine  a 
day.  And  we  have  come  to  spend  all  of  it  in  this 
forest. 

TANSIE.     Ah,  but  'tis  warm  upon  the  high  road. 

NAT.  We  be  come  right  away  from  the  town, 
mistress. 


18  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

JULIA.  Then  sit  down,  all  of  you,  and  we  will  talk 
in  the  cool  shade. 

LAURA.  Not  here,  if  you  please.  I  am  not  used  to 
such  company. 

JULIA.  Not  here  ?  Very  well,  my  friends,  let  us  go 
further  into  the  wood  and  you  shall  stretch  yourselves 
under  the  green  trees  and  we  will  all  rest  there  together. 

LAURA.  Well,  what  next !  You  might  stop  to  con- 
sider how  'twill  look  in  the  parish. 

JULIA.     How  what  will  look  ? 

LAURA.  How  'twill  look  for  you  to  be  seen  going  off 
in  such  company  like  this. 

JULIA.  The  trees  have  not  eyes,  nor  have  the  grass, 
and  flowers.  There's  no  one  to  see  me  but  you,  and  you 
can  turn  your  head  t'other  way.  Come  Tansie,  come 
Chris.  [She  turns  towards  the  three  gipsies. 

TANSIE.  Nat's  in  a  sorry  way,  this  morning — baint 
you,  Nat  ? 

NAT.  Let  I  be.  You  do  torment  anyone  till  they 
scarce  do  know  if  they  has  senses  to  them  or  no. 

TANSIE.  You're  not  one  to  miss  what  you  never  had, 
Nat. 

CHRIS.  Let  the  lad  bide  in  quiet,  will  you.  'Tis  a 
powerful  little  nagging  wench  as  you  be. 

JULIA.    Why  are  you  heavy  and  sad  this  fine  day,  Nat  ? 

TANSIE.  'Tis  love  what's  the  matter  with  he,  mis- 
tress. 

JULIA.  Love  ?  O,  that's  not  a  thing  that  should 
bring  heaviness  or  gloom,  but  lightness  to  the  heart, 
and  song  to  the  lips. 

TANSIE.  Ah,  but  when  there's  been  no  meeting  in  the 
dusk  since  Sunday,  and  no  message  sent ! 

CHRIS.  Keep  that  tongue  of  your'n  where  it  should 
be,  and  give  over,  Tansie.  Susan's  not  one  as  would 
play  tricks  with  her  lad. 

JULIA.  Now  I  have  a  thirst  to  hear  all  about  this, 
Nat,  so  come  off  further  into  the  wood,  all  of  you,  where 
we  can  speak  in  quiet. 

[She  holds  out  her  hand  to  NAT. 


ACT  n  MY   MAN   JOHN  19 

LAURA.  Upon  my  word,  but  something  must  be 
done  to  bring  these  goings  on  to  an  end. 

JULIA.  Come,  Nat-  you  shall  tell  me  all  your  trouble. 
I  understand  the  things  of  the  heart  better  than  Tansie, 
and  I  shall  know  how  to  give  you  comfort  in  your 
distress — come  ! 

[ JULIA  and  NAT,  followed  by  CHRIS  and  TANSIE, 
move  off  out  of  sight.  LAURA  is  left  sitting 
on  the  bench  alone.  Presently  JOHN  comes 
out  carefully  from  behind  the  bushes,  holding 
his  bunch  of  flowers. 

JOHN.     A  good  day  to  you,  mistress. 

LAURA.     The  same  to  you,  master. 

JOHN.     Folks  do  call  me  John. 

LAURA.     Indeed  ?     Good  morning,  John. 

JOHN.     A  fine  brave  sun  to-day,  mistress. 

LAURA.     But  pleasant  enough  here  in  the  shade. 

JOHN.  Now,  begging  your  pardon,  but  what  you 
wants  over  the  head  of  you  baint  one  of  these  great 
trees  full  of  flies  and  insects,  but  an  arbour  trailed  all 
about  with  bloom,  such  as  my  master  has  down  at  his 
place  yonder. 

LAURA.  Indeed  ?  And  who  may  your  master  be, 
John  ? 

JOHN.  'Tis  Master  William  Gardner,  what's  the  talk 
of  the  country  for  miles  around,  mistress.  And  that  he  be. 

LAURA.  Master  William  Gardner !  What,  he  of 
Road  Farm  ? 

JOHN.  The  very  same,  mistress.  And  as  grand  a 
gentleman  as  anyone  might  wish  for  to  see. 

LAURA.  Yes — I  seem  to  have  heard  something  told 
about  him,  but  I  don't  rightly  remember  what  'twas. 

JOHN.  You  may  have  heard  tell  as  the  finest  field  of 
beans  this  season,  that's  his. 

LAURA.     I  don't  think  'twas  of  beans  that  I  did  hear. 

JOHN.  Or  that  'twas  his  spotted  hilt  what  fetched 
the  highest  price  of  any  in  the  market  Saturday  ? 

LAURA.    No,  'twasn't  that  neither. 

JOHN.     Or  that  folks  do  come  as  thick  as  flies  on  a 


20  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  H 

summer's  day  from  all  parts  of  the  country  for  to  buy 
the  wheat  what  he  do  grow.  Ah,  and  before  'tis  cut  or 
like  to  be,  they  be  a  fighting  for  it,  all  of  them,  like  a 
pack  of  dogs  with  a  bone.  So  'tis. 

LAURA.     'Twasn't  that,  I  don't  think. 

JOHN.  Or  'twas  that  th'  old  missis — she  as  is 
mother  to  Master  William — her  has  a  tongue  what's 
sharper  nor  longer  than  any  vixen's  going.  But  that's 
between  you  and  I,  missis. 

LAURA.  Ah — 'Twas  that  I  did  hear  tell  of.  Now  I 
remember  it. 

JOHN.  But  Master  William — the  tongue  what  he  do 
keep  be  smooth  as  honey,  and  a  lady  might  do  as  she 
likes  with  him  if  one  got  the  chance. 

LAURA.  Indeed  ?  He  must  be  a  pleasant  sort  of  a 
gentleman. 

JOHN.  For  he  could  be  led  with  kindness  same  as 
anything  else.  But  try  for  to  drive  him,  as  old  Missis 
do — and  very  likely 'tis  hoofed  as  you'll  get  for  your  pains. 

LAURA.     I  like  a  man  with  some  spirit  to  him,  myself. 

JOHN.  Ah,  Master  William  has  a  rare  spirit  to  him, 
and  that  he  has.  You  should  hear  him  when  th'  old 
Missis's  fowls  be  got  into  his  flower  garden.  Tis 
sommat  as  is  not  likely  to  be  forgot  in  a  hurry.  That 
'tisn't. 

LAURA.  You  carry  a  handsome  nosegay  of  blossoms 
there,  John.  Are  they  from  your  master's  garden  ? 

JOHN.  Ah,  there're  not  amiss.  I  helped  for  to  raise 
they  too. 

LAURA.  And  to  whom  are  you  taking  them  now, 
John  ? 

JOHN.  To  the  lady  what  my  master's  a-courting  of, 
mistress. 

LAURA.     And  whom  may  that  be,  John  ? 

JOHN.    Why,  'tis  yourself,  mistress. 

LAURA.  Me,  John  ?  Why,  I've  never  clapped  eyes 
on  Master  William  Gardner  so  far  as  I  know  of. 

JOHN.  But  he've  clapped  eyes  on  you,  mistress — 
'twas  at  Church  last  Sunday.  And  'tis  not  a  bit  of 


ACT  n  MY   MAN   JOHN  21 

food,  nor  a  drop  of  drink,  nor  an  hour  of  sleep,  as  Master 
William  have  taken  since. 

LAURA.     O,  you  do  surprise  me,  John  ? 

JOHN.  That's  how  'tis  with  he,  mistress.  Tis  many 
a  year  as  I've  served  Master  William — but  never  have  I 
seen  him  in  the  fix  where  he  be  in  to-day. 

LAURA.    Why- — how  is  it  with  him  then  ? 

JOHN.  As  it  might  be  with  the  cattle  when  the  flies 
do  buzz  about  they,  thick  in  the  sunshine.  A-lashing 
this  way  and  that,  a-trampling  and  a-tossing,  and  never 
a  minute's  rest. 

LAURA.    Well,  now — to  think  of  such  a  thing.  Indeed  ! 

JOHN.  I've  seen  a  horse  right  up  to  the  neck  of  him 
in  that  old  quag  ahind  of  our  place — a-snorting  and  a- 
clapping  with  his  teeth  and  a -plunging  so  as  'twould 
terrify  anyone  to  harken  to  it.  And  that's  how  'tis 
to-day  with  Master  William  up  at  home,  so  'tis. 

LAURA.  And  only  saw  me  once — at  Church  last 
Sunday,  John  ? 

JOHN.  Ah — and  they  old  maid  flies  do  sting  but 
once,  but  'tis  a  terrible  big  bump  as  they  do  raise  on  the 
flesh  of  anyone,  that  'tis. 

LAURA.     0  John — 'tis  a  fine  thing  to  be  loved  like  that. 

JOHN.  So  I  should  say — ah,  'tisn't  every  day  that 
a  man  like  Master  William  goes  a-courting. 

LAURA.     But  he  hasn't  set  out  yet,  John. 

JOHN.  You  take  and  hold  the  nosegay,  mistress, 
and  I'll  go  straight  off  and  fetch  him,  so  being  as  you're 
agreeable. 

LAURA.  0  yes,  and  that  I  am,  John — You  go  and 
fetch  him  quick.  I'll  bide  here  gladly,  waiting  till  he 
comes. 

JOHN.  That's  it.  I  knowed  you  for  a  sensible  lady 
the  moment  I  pitched  my  eyes  on  to  you.  And  when 
master  do  come  up,  you  take  and  talk  to  him  nicely 
and  meek -like  and  lead  him  on  from  one  thing  to 
t'other  :  and  you'll  find  as  he'll  go  quiet  as  a  sheep 
after  the  first  set  off,  spite  of  the  great  spirit  what's 
at  the  heart  of  he. 


22  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

LAURA.  John,  I'll  do  all  as  you  say,  and  more  than 
all.  Only,  you  get  along  and  send  him  quickly  to  me. 
And — yes,  you  might  give  him  a  good  hint,  John — I'm 
not  averse  to  his  attentions. 

JOHN.  Ah,  and  I  should  think  you  wasn't,  for 
'twould  be  a  hard  job  to  find  a  nicer  gentleman  nor 
Master  William. 

LAURA.  That  I  know  it  would.  Why,  John,  my 
heart's  commenced  beating  ever  so  fast,  it  has. 

JOHN.  Then  you  may  reckon  how  'tis  with  the  poor 
master  !  Why,  'tis  my  belief  as  'twill  be  raving  mad- 
ness as'll  be  the  end  of  he  if  sommat  don't  come  to  put  a 
finish  to  this  unrest. 

LAURA.  0  John,  'twould  never  do  for  such  a  fine 
gentleman  to  go  crazy.  Do  you  set  off  quick  and  send 
him  along  to  me,  and  I'll  take  and  do  my  very  best  for 
to  quiet  him,  like. 

JOHN.  [Rising  and  about  to  set  off.]  Ah,  'tis  a 
powerful  lot  of  calming  as  Master  William  do  require. 
But  you  be  the  one  for  to  give  it  him.  You  just  bide 
where  you  do  sit  now  whilst  I  goes  and  fetches  him, 
mistress. 

LAURA.     0  that  I  will,  my  good,  dear  John. 

Curtain. 


ACT  II.— Scene  2. 

The  same  wood. 

WILLIAM  and  JOHN  come  up.    WILLIAM  carries  a  large 
market  basket  containing  vegetables. 

JOHN.  [Looking  round  and  seeing  no  one.]  Bless 
my  soul,  but  'twas  on  the  seat  as  I  did  leave  she. 

WILLIAM.  We  have  kept  her  waiting  a  bit  too  long 
whilst  we  were  cutting  the  green  stuff.  And  now  'twill 
be  best  to  let  matters  bide  over  till  to-morrow. 


ACT  ii  MY   MAN   JOHN  23 

JOHN.  Why,  master  'tis  my  belief  as  you  be  all  of 
a-tremble  like. 

WILLIAM.  I  wish  we  were  well  out  of  this  business, 
John.  Tis  not  to  my  liking  in  any  way. 

JOHN.  'Tis  a  fine  looking  lady,  and  that  'tis.  You 
take  and  court  her,  Master  William. 

WILLIAM.  How  am  I  to  court  the  wench  when  she's 
not  here  ? 

JOHN.  [Pointing.]  Look  yonder,  master,  there  she 
comes  through  them  dark  trees. 

WILLIAM.  You've  got  to  bide  somewhere  nigh  me, 
John.  I  could  not  be  left  alone  with  a  wench  who's  a 
stranger  to  me. 

JOHN.  Don't  you  get  flustered,  Master  William.  See 
here,  I'll  hide  me  ahind  of  yon  bushes,  and  if  so  be  as  you 
should  want  me,  why,  there  I'm  close  at  hand. 

WILLIAM.  I'd  rather  you  did  stand  at  my  side,  John. 
[JOHN  hides  himself  behind  the  bushes.  LAURA 
comes  slowly  up.  WILLIAM  stands  awk- 
wardly before  her,  saying  nothing.  Pre- 
sently he  takes  off  his  hat  and  salutes  her 
clumsily  and  she  bows  to  him.  For  some 
moments  they  stand  embarrassed,  looking 
at  one  another. 

WILLIAM.  [Suddenly  bringing  out  a  bunch  of  carrots 
from  his  basket  and  holding  them  up.]  See  these  young 
carrots,  mistress. 

LAURA.     Indeed  I  do,  master. 

WILLIAM.  "Tisn't  everywhere  that  you  do  see  such 
fine  grown  ones  for  the  time  of  year. 

LAURA.  You're  right  there,  master.  We  have  none 
of  them  up  at  our  place. 

WILLIAM .  [Holding  them  towards  her.]  Then  be  pleased 
to  accept  these,  mistress. 

LAURA.     [Taking   the   carrots.]    Thank   you   kindly, 

master.    [There  is  another  embarrassed  silence.     WILLIAM 

looks    distractedly    from    LAURA    to    his 

basket.     Then   he   takes    out   a    bunch    of 

turnips. 


24  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

WILLIAM.  You  couldn't  beat  these  nowhere,  not  if 
you  were  to  try. 

LAURA.     I'm  sure  you  could  not,  master. 

WILLIAM.  They  do  call  this  sort  the  Early  Snowball. 
"Tis  a  foolish  name  for  a  table  root. 

LAURA.     'Tis  a  beautiful  turnip. 

WILLIAM.  [Giving  her  the  bunch.]  You  may  as  well 
have  them  too. 

LAURA.     0  you're  very  kind,  master. 

[There  is  another  long  silence.  WILLIAM  shuffles 
on  his  feet — LAURA  bends  admiringly  over 
her  gifts. 

WILLIAM.  There's  young  beans  and  peas  and  a 
spring  cabbage  too,  within  the  basket.  I  do  grow  a 
little  of  most  everything. 

LAURA.  0  shall  we  sit  down  and  look  at  the  vegetables 
together  ? 

WILLIAM.     [  Visibly  relieved.]    We  might  do  worse  nor 
that.        [They  sit  down  side  by  side  with  the  basket 
between  them. 

LAURA.  [Lifting  the  cabbage.]  0,  this  is  quite  a 
little  picture  !  See  how  the  leaves  do  curl  backwards — so 
fresh  and  green ! 

WILLIAM.  Ah,  and  that  one  has  a  rare  white  heart 
to  it,  it  has. 

LAURA.  I  do  love  the  taste  of  a  spring  cabbage, 
when  it  has  a  slice  of  fat  bacon  along  with  it. 

WILLIAM.  I  might  have  brought  a  couple  of  pounds 
with  me  if  I'd  have  thought.  Mother  do  keep  some 
rare  mellow  jowls  a-hanging  in  the  pantry. 

LAURA.     [Shyly.]    Next  time,  maybe. 

WILLIAM.  [Eagerly.]  'Twouldn't  take  ten  minutes 
for  me  to  run  back. 

LAURA.  Not  now — O  no  master — not  now.  Do  you 
bide  a  little  longer  here  and  tell  me  about — about 
t'other  things  in  the  basket. 

WILLIAM.  [Mopping  his  face  with  a  handkerchief.] 
Well — there's  the  beans — I  count  that  yours  haven't 
come  up  very  smart  this  year. 


ACT  H  MY   MAN   JOHN  25 

LAURA.  That  they've  not.  The  whole  place  has  been 
let  to  run  dreadful  wild. 

WILLIAM.  I'd — I'd  like  to  show  you  how  'tis  in  my 
garden,  one  of  these  days. 

LAURA.  I'd  be  very  pleased  to  walk  along  with  you 
there. 

WILLIAM.  [Hurriedly.]  Ah — you  should  see  it  later 
on  when  the — the — the  parsnips  are  a  bit  forrarder. 

LAURA.  I'd  like  to  see  the  flower  garden  now,  where 
this  nosegay  came  from. 

WILLIAM.  [Looking  round  uneasily.]  I  don't  know 
what  the  folks  would  say  if  they  were  to  see  you  and  me 
a-going  on  the  road  in  broad  day — I'm  sure  I  don't. 

LAURA.  Why,  what  should  they  say,  Master 
Gardner? 

WILLIAM.  They  might  get  saying — they  might  say 
as — as  I'd  got  a-courting,  or  sommat  foolish. 

LAURA.     Well— and  would  that  be  untrue  ? 

WILLIAM.  [Looking  at  her  very  uncomfortably.]  I'm 
blessed  if  I  do  know — I  mean — 

LAURA.  This  nosegay — and  look,  those  young  carrots 
— and  the  turnips  and  beans,  why  did  you  bring  them 
for  me,  master,  unless  it  was  that  you  intended  some- 
thing by  it  ? 

WILLIAM.  [Very  confused.]  That's  so.  So  'tis. 
That's  true.  I  count  you  have  got  hold  of  the  sow  by 
the  ear  right  enough  this  time.  And  the  less  said  about 
it  the  better.  [A  slight  silence. 

LAURA.  [Looking  up  shyly  in  WILLIAM'S/OCC.]  What 
was  it  drew  you  to  me  first,  master  ? 

WILLIAM.  I  believe  'twas  in  Church  on  Sunday  that 
I  chanced  to  take  notice  of  you,  like. 

LAURA.  Yes,  but  what  was  it  about  me  that  took 
your  fancy  in  Church  on  Sunday  ? 

WILLIAM.  I'm  blessed  if  I  know,  unless  'twas 
those  coloured  ribbons  that  you  have  got  to  your 
bonnet. 

LAURA.    You  are  partial  to  the  colour  ? 

WILLIAM.    Ah,  'tis  well  enough. 


26  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

LAURA.  See  here.  [Taking  a  flower  from  her  dress.] 
This  is  of  the  same  colour.  I  will  put  it  in  your  coat. 

[She  fastens  it  in  his  coat.    WILLIAM  looks  very 
uncomfortable  and  nervous. 

WILLIAM.  Well,  bless  my  soul,  but  women  folk  have 
got  some  powerful  strange  tricks  to  them. 

LAURA.  [Pinning  the  flower  in  its  place.]  There — 
my  gift  to  you,  master. 

WILLIAM.  You  may  call  me  by  my  name,  if  you  like, 
'tis  more  suitable,  seeing  that  we  might  go  along  to 
Church  together  one  of  these  days. 

LAURA.  O  William,  you  have  made  me  very  happy — 
I  do  feel  all  mazy  like  with  my  gladness. 

WILLIAM.  Well,  Julia,  we  might  do  worse  than  to — to 
— name  the  day. 

LAURA.     Why  do  you  call  me  Julia  ? 

WILLIAM.  Seeing  that  I've  given  you  leave  to  call 
me  William  'tis  only  suitable  that  I  should  use  your 
name  as  well. 

LAURA.     But  my  name  is  not  Julia. 

WILLIAM.     What  is  it  then,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 

LAURA.     'Tis  Laura,  William. 

WILLIAM.  Folks  did  tell  me  that  you  were  named 
Julia. 

LAURA.  No — Laura  is  my  name ;  but  I  live  with 
Mistress  Julia  up  at  Luther's  Farm,  and  I  help  her  with 
the  work.  House-keeping,  dairy,  poultry,  garden.  0 
there's  nothing  I  can't  turn  my  hand  to,  Master 
William. 

WILLIAM.  [Starts  up  from  the  seat  in  deepest  con- 
sternation.] John,  John — Come  you  here,  I  say !  Come 
here. 

JOHN.  [Emerges  from  the  bushes.]  My  dearest 
master ! 

WILLIAM.    What's  this  you've  been  and  done,  John  ? 

JOHN  .  Why,  master — the  one  with  the  cherry  ribbons , 
to  her  you  did  say. 

WILLIAM.     [Disgustedly.]    'Tis  the  wrong  one. 

LAURA.    What  are  you  two  talking  about  ?     William, 


ACT  ii  MY    MAN   JOHN  27 

do  you  mean  to  say  as  that  man  of  yours  was  hid  in  the 
bushes  all  the  while  ? 

WILLIAM.  Now,  John,  you've  got  to  get  me  out  of 
the  fix  where  I'm  set. 

JOHN.  0  my  dear  master,  don't  you  take  on  so, 
'Tis  a  little  bit  of  misunderstanding  to  be  sure,  but  one 
as  can  be  put  right  very  soon. 

WILLIAM.  Then  you  get  to  work  and  set  it  right, 
John,  for  'tis  beyond  the  power  of  me  to  do  so.  I'll 
be  blessed  if  I'll  ever  get  meddling  with  this  sort  of  job 
again. 

JOHN.  Now  don't  you  get  so  heated,  master,  but 
leave  it  all  to  me.  [Turning  to  LAURA.]  My  good 
wench,  it  seems  that  there  has  been  a  little  bit  of  mis- 
understanding between  you  and  my  gentleman  here. 

LAURA.  [Angrily.]  So  that's  what  you  call  it — 
misunderstanding  'tis  a  fine  long  word,  but  not  much 
of  meaning,  to  it,  I'm  thinking. 

JOHN.  Then  you  do  think  wrong.  Suppose  you  was 
to  go  to  market  for  to  buy  a  nice  spring  chicken  and 
when  you  was  got  half  on  the  way  to  home  you  was  to 
see  as  they  had  put  you  up  a  lean  old  fowl  in  place  of  it, 
what  would  you  do  then  ? 

LAURA.  I  don't  see  that  chickens  or  fowls  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  matter. 

JOHN.  Then  you're  not  the  smart  maid  I  took  you 
for.  'Tis  not  you  as  would  be  suitable  in  my  master's 
home.  And  what's  more,  'tis  not  you  as  my  master's 
come  a-courting  of. 

LAURA.     If  'tis  not  me,  who  is  it  then  ? 

[WILLIAM  looks  at  her  sheepishly  and  then  turns 
away. 

JOHN.     'Tis  your  mistress,  since  you  wants  to  know. 

LAURA.     [Indignantly.]    0,  I  see  it  all  now How 

could  I  have  been  so  misled  ! 

JOHN.  However  could  poor  master  have  been  so 
mistook,  I  say. 

LAURA.  [Turning  away  passionately.]  0,  I've  had 
enough  of  you  and — and  your  master. 


28  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

JOHN.  Now  that's  what  I  do  like  for  to  hear.  Because 
me  and  master  have  sommat  else  to  do  nor  to  stand 
giddle-gaddling  in  this  old  wood  the  rest  of  the  day.  Us 
have  got  a  smartish  lot  of  worry  ahead  of  we,  haven't 
us,  master  ? 

WILLIAM.    You  never  said  a  truer  word,  John. 

JOHN.  Come  along  then  Master  William.  You  can 
leave  the  spring  vegetables  to  she.  'Tis  more  nor  she 
deserves,  seeing  as  her  might  have  known  as  'twas  her 
mistress  the  both  of  us  was  after,  all  the  time. 

[LAURA  throws  herself  on  the  seat  and  begins  to 
cry  silently,  but  passionately. 

WILLIAM.  0  John,  this  courting,  'tis  powerful  heavy 
work. 

JOHN.  [Taking  WILLIAM'S  arm.]  Come  you  along 
with  me,  master,  and  I'll  give  you  a  helping  hand  with 
it  all. 

LAURA.  [Looking  up  and  speaking  violently.]  I 
warrant  you  will,  you  clown.  But  let  me  advise  you 
to  look  better  afore  you  leap  next  time,  or  very  likely  'tis 
in  sommat  worse  than  a  ditchful  of  nettles  as  you'll  find 
yourself. 

JOHN.  [Looking  back  over  his  shoulders  as  he  goes  off 
with  WILLIAM.]  I  reckon  as  you've  no  call  to  trouble 
about  we,  mistress.  Us  is  they  what  can  look  after 
theirselves  very  well.  Suppose  you  was  to  wash  your 
face  and  dry  your  eyes  and  set  about  the  boiling  of 
yon  spring  cabbage.  'Twould  be  sensibler  like  nor  to 
bide  grizzling  after  one  as  is  beyond  you  in  his  station, 
so  'twould. 

[JOHN  and  WILLIAM  go  out,  leaving  LAURA 
weeping  on  the  bench,  the  basket  of  vegetables 
by  her  side. 

[Curtain.] 


ACT  H  MY   MAN   JOHN  29 


ACT  II.— Scene  3. 

JULIA  is  sitting  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  in  the  wood.    CHRIS, 
NAT  and  TANSIE  are  seated  near  her  on  the  ground. 

JULIA.     I  wish  this  day  might  last  for  always. 

CHRIS.  Why,  when  to-morrow's  come,  'twill  be  the 
same. 

JULIA.  That  it  will  not.  To-day  is  a  holiday.  To- 
morrow's work. 

TANSIE.  One  day  'tis  much  the  same  as  t'other  with 
me. 

NAT.     'Tis  what  we  gets  to  eat  as  do  make  the  change. 

TANSIE.  I  should  have  thought  as  how  a  grand 
young  mistress  like  yourself  might  have  had  the  days  to 
your  own  liking. 

JULIA.  Ah,  and  so  I  did  once.  But  that  was  before 
Uncle  died  and  left  me  the  farm.  Now,  'tis  all  different 
with  the  days. 

CHRIS.     How  was  it  with  you  afore  then,  mistress  ? 

JULIA.  Much  the  same  as  'tis  with  that  bird  flying 
yonder.  I  did  so  as  I  listed.  If  I  had  a  mind  to  sleep 
when  the  sun  was  up,  then  I  did  sleep.  And  if  my  limbs 
would  not  rest  when  'twas  dark,  why,  then  I  did  roam. 
There  was  naught  to  hold  me  back  from  my  fancy. 

TANSIE.     And  how  is  it  now  with  you,  mistress  ? 

JULIA.     'Tis  all  said  in  one  word. 

CHRIS.    What's  that  ? 

JULIA.     'Tis  "  work." 

NAT.    Work  ? 

CHRIS.    Work? 

TANSIE.  Work  !  And  yet  'tis  a  fine  young  lady  as 
you  do  look  in  your  muslin  gown  with  silky  ribbons  to 
it  and  all. 

JULIA.  I'm  a  farmer,  Tansie.  And  for  a  farmer  'tis 
work  of  one  sort,  or  t'other  from  when  the  sun  is  up 
till  the  candle  has  burned  itself  short.  If  'tisn't  working 
with  my  own  hands,  'tis  driving  of  the  hands  of  another. 


30  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

CHRIS.  I've  heard  tell  as  a  farmer  do  spin  gold  all 
the  day  same  as  one  of  they  great  spiders  as  go  putting 
out  silk  from  their  mouths. 

JULIA.  And  what  is  gold  to  me,  Chris,  who  have  no 
one  but  myself  to  spend  it  on  ? 

CHRIS.  Folks  do  say  as  the  laying  up  of  gold  be  one 
of  the  finest  things  in  the  world. 

JULIA.     It  will  never  bring  happiness  to  me,  Chris. 

CHRIS.  Come,  mistress,  'tis  a  fine  thing  to  have  a 
great  stone  roof  above  the  head  of  you. 

JULIA.  I'd  sooner  get  my  shelter  from  the  green 
leaves. 

NAT.  And  a  grand  thing  to  have  your  victuals 
spread  afore  you  each  time  'stead  of  having  to  go  lean 
very  often. 

JULIA.  0,  a  handful  of  berries  and  a  drink  of  fresh 
water  is  enough  for  me. 

TANSIE.  And  beautiful  it  must  be  to  stretch  the 
limbs  of  you  upon  feathers  when  night  do  come 
down,  with  a  fine  white  sheet  drawn  up  over  your 
head. 

JULIA.  O,  I  could  rest  more  sweetly  on  the  grass 
and  moss  yonder. 

NAT.  I  did  never  sleep  within  four  walls  but  once, 
and  then  'twas  in  gaol. 

JULIA.     O  Nat,  you  were  never  in  gaol,  were  you  ? 

NAT.  'Twas  that  they  mistook  I  for  another.  And 
when  the  morning  did  come,  they  did  let  I  go  again. 

CHRIS.     I  count  'twas  a  smartish  long  night,  that ! 

NAT.  'Twas  enough  for  to  shew  me  how  it  do  feel 
when  anyone  has  got  to  bide  sleeping  with  the  walls  all 
around  of  he. 

JULIA.  And  the  ceiling  above,  Nat.  And  locked  door. 
And  other  folk  lying  breathing  in  the  house,  hard  by. 
All  dark  and  close. 

CHRIS.  And  where  us  may  lie,  the  air  do  run  swift 
over  we.  We  has  the  smell  of  the  earth  and  the  leaves 
on  us  as  we  do  sleep.  There  baint  no  darkness  for  we, 
for  the  stars  do  blink  all  night  through  up  yonder. 


ACT  n  MY   MAN   JOHN  31 

TANSIE.  And  no  sound  of  other  folk  breathing  but 
the  crying  of  th'  owls  and  the  foxes'  bark. 

JULIA.  Ah,  that  must  be  a  grand  sound,  the  barking 
of  a  fox.  I  never  did  hear  one.  Never. 

CHRIS.  Ah,  'tis  a  powerful  thin  sound,  that — but  one 
to  raise  the  hair  on  a  man's  head  and  to  clam  the  flesh 
of  he,  at  dead  of  night. 

NAT.  You  come  and  bide  along  of  we  one  evening, 
and  you  shall  hearken  to  the  fox,  and  badger  too,  if 
you've  the  mind. 

JULIA.  O  that  would  please  me  more  than  anything 
in  the  world. 

TANSIE.  And  when  'twas  got  a  little  lighter,  so  that 
the  bushes  could  be  seen,  and  the  fields,  I'd  shew  you 
where  the  partridge  has  her  nest  beneath  the  hedge  ; 
where  we  have  gotten  eggs,  and  eaten  them  too. 

CHRIS.  And  I'll  take  and  lead  you  to  a  place  what  I 
do  know  of,  where  the  water  flows  clear  as  a  diamond 
over  the  stones.  And  if  you  bides  there  waiting  quiet 
you  may  take  the  fish  as  they  come  along — and  there's 
a  dinner  such  as  the  Queen  might  not  get  every  day  of 
the  week. 

JULIA.  0  Chris,  who  is  there  to  say  I  must  bide  in 
one  place  when  all  in  me  is  thirsting  to  be  in  t'other ! 

CHRIS     I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 

NAT.  I  should  move  about  where  I  did  like,  if  'twas 
me. 

TANSIE.  A  fine  young  lady  like  you  can  do  as  she 
pleases. 

JULIA.  Well  then,  it  pleases  me  to  bide  with  you  in 
the  free  air. 

CHRIS.  Our  life,  'tis  a  poor  life,  and  wandering. 
'Tis  food  one  day,  and  may  be  going  without  the  next. 
'Tis  the  sun  upon  the  faces  of  us  one  hour — and  then  the 
rain.  But  'tis  in  freedom  that  us  walks,  and  we  be  the 
masters  of  our  own  limbs. 

JULIA.     Will  you  be  good  to  me  if  I  journey  with  you  ? 

CHRIS.  Ah,  'tis  not  likely  as  I'll  ever  fail  you, 
mistress. 


32  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

JTTLIA.  Do  not  call  me  mistress  any  longer,  Chris, 
my  name  is  Julia. 

CHRIS.  'Tis  a  well-sounding  name,  and  one  as  runs 
easy  as  clear  water  upon  the  tongue. 

JULIA.     Tansie,  how  will  it  be  for  me  to  go  with  you  ? 

TANSIE.  'Twill  be  well  enough  with  the  spirit  of  you 
I  don't  doubt,  but  how'll  it  be  with  the  fine  clothes  what 
you  have  on  ? 

NAT.  [Suddenly  looking  up.]  Why,  there's  Susan 
coming. 

JULIA.  [Looking  in  the  same  direction.]  So  that  is 
Susan  ? 

TANSIE.  I  count  as  her  has  had  a  smartish  job  to  get 
away  from  th'old  missis  so  early  in  the  day. 

CHRIS.  'Tis  a  rare  old  she  cat,  and  handy  with  the 
claw's  of  her,  Susan's  missis. 

[SUSAN  comes  shyly  forward. 

NAT.      Come  you  here,  Susan,  and  sit  along  of  we. 

JULIA.  Yes,  sit  down  with  us  in  this  cool  shade, 
Susan.  You  look  warm  from  running. 

SUSAN.  O,  I  didn't  know  you  was  here,  Mistress 
Julia. 

JULIA.  Well,  Susan,  and  so  you  live  at  Road  Farm. 
Are  you  happy  there  ? 

SUSAN.     I  should  be  if  'twern't  for  mistress. 

JULIA.  No  mistress  could  speak  harshly  to  you, 
Susan — you  are  so  young  and  pretty. 

SUSAN.  Ah,  but  mistress  takes  no  account  of  aught 
but  the  work  you  does,  and  the  tongue  of  her  be  wonder- 
ful lashing. 

JULIA.  Then  how  comes  it  that  you  have  got  away 
to  the  forest  so  early  on  a  week  day  ? 

SUSAN.  'Tis  that  mistress  be  powerful  took  up  with 
sommat  else  this  afternoon,  and  so  I  was  able  to  run 
out  for  a  while  and  her  didn't  notice  me. 

TANSIE.  Why  Su,  what's  going  on  up  at  the  farm  so 
particular  to-day  ? 

SUSAN.     'Tis  courting. 

ALL.    Courting  ? 


ACT  n  MY   MAN   JOHN  33 

SUSAN.  Yes.  That  'tis.  'Tis  our  Master  William 
what's  dressed  up  in  his  Sunday  clothes  and  gone 
a-courting  with  a  basket  of  green  stuff  on  his  arm  big 
enough  to  fill  the  market,  very  nigh. 

CHRIS.  Well,  well,  who'd  have  thought  he  had  it  in 
him  ? 

NAT.  He's  a  gentleman  what's  not  cut  out  for  court- 
ing, to  my  mind. 

SUSAN.  Indeed  he  isn't,  Nat.  And  however  the 
mistress  got  him  dressed  and  set  off  on  that  business,  I 
don't  know. 

JULIA.  But  you  have  not  told  us  who  the  lady  is, 
Susan. 

SUSAN.  [Suddenly  very  embarrassed.]  I — I — don't 
think  as  I  do  rightly  know  who  'tis,  mistress. 

CHRIS.  Why,  look  you,  Susan,  you'll  have  to  take  and 
hide  yourself  if  you  don't  want  for  them  to  know  as  you 
be  got  along  of  we. 

SUSAN.     What's  that,  Chris  ? 

CHRIS.  [Pointing.]  See  there,  that  man  of  Master 
Gardner's  be  a-coming  along  towards  us  fast.  Look 
yonder — 

SUSAN.  0  whatever  shall  I  do  ?  'Tis  John,  and 
surely  he  will  tell  of  me  when  he  gets  back. 

NAT.  Come  you  off  with  me  afore  he  do  perceive 
you,  Susan.  I'll  take  you  where  you  shall  bide  hid 
from  all  the  Johns  in  the  world  if  you'll  but  come  along 
of  me. 

JULIA.  That's  it.  Take  her  off,  Nat ;  take  her, 
Tansie.  And  do  you  go  along  too,  Chris,  for  I  have  a 
fancy  to  bide  alone  in  the  stillness  of  the  wood  for  a 
while. 

[SusAN,  TANSIE  and  NAT  go  out. 

CHRIS.     Be  I  to  leave  you  too,  Julia. 

JULIA.  [Slowly.]  Only  for  a  little  moment,  Chris  ; 
then  you  can  come  for  me  again.  I  would  like  to  stay 
with  myself  in  quiet  for  a  while.  New  thoughts  have 
come  into  my  mind  and  I  cannot  rightly  understand 
what  they  do  say  to  me,  unless  I  hearken  to  them  alone. 


34  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

CHRIS.  Then  I'll  leave  you,  Julia.  For  things  be 
stirring  powerful  in  my  mind  too,  and  I'd  give  sommat 
for  to  come  to  an  understanding  with  they.  Ah,  that 
I  would. 

[They  look  at  one  another  in  silence  for  a  moment, 
then  CHRIS  slowly  follows  the  others,  leaving 
JULIA  alone.    JULIA  sits  alone  in  the  wood. 
Presently  she  begins  to  sing. 
JULIA.     [Singing.] 

I  sowed  the  seeds  of  love, 

It  was  all  in  the  Spring  ; 

In  April,  in  May,  and  in  June  likewise 

When  small  birds  they  do  sing. 

[JOHN  with  a  large  basket  on  his  arm  comes  up  to 
her. 

JOHN.     A  good  day  to  you,  mistress. 

JULIA.     Good  afternoon. 

JOHN.  Now  I  count  as  you  would  like  to  know  who 
'tis  that's  made  so  bold  in  speaking  to  you,  Mistress. 

JULIA.  Why,  you're  Master  Gardner's  farm  hand,  if 
I'm  not  mistaken. 

JOHN.  Ah,  that's  right  enough.  And  there  be  jobs 
as  I  wish  Master  William  would  get  and  do  for  hisself 
instead  of  putting  them  on  I. 

JULIA.  Well,  and  how  far  may  you  be  going  this 
afternoon  ? 

JOHN.  I  baint  going  no  further  than  where  I  be 
a-standing  now,  mistress. 

JULIA.  It  would  appear  that  your  business  was  with 
me,  then  ? 

JOHN.  Ah,  you've  hit  the  right  nail,  mistress.  'Tis 
with  you.  'Tis  a  straight  offer  as  my  master  have  sent 
me  out  for  to  make. 

JULIA.  Now  I  wonder  what  sort  of  an  offer  that 
might  be  ! 

JOHN.  'Tis  master's  hand  in  marriage,  and  a  couple 
of  pigs  jowls,  home-cured,  within  this  here  basket. 

JULIA.     0  my  good  man,  you're  making  game  of  me. 


ACT  H  MY   MAN   JOHN  35 

JOHN.  And  that  I  baint,  mistress.  'Twas  in  the 
church  as  Master  William  seed  you  first.  And  'tis  very 
nigh  sick  unto  death  with  love  as  he  have  been  since 
then. 

JULIA.  Is  he  too  sick  to  come  and  plead  his  cause 
himself,  John  ? 

JOHN.  Ah,  and  that  he  be.  Do  go  moulting  about 
the  place  with  his  victuals  left  upon  the  dish — a  sighing 
and  a  grizzling  so  that  any  maid  what's  got  a  heart  to 
th'  inside  of  she  would  be  moved  in  pity,  did  she  catch 
ear  of  it,  and  would  lift  he  out  of  the  torment. 

JULIA.  Well,  John,  I've  not  seen  or  heard  any  of  this 
sad  to-do,  so  I  can't  be  moved  in  pity. 

JOHN.  Ah,  do  you  look  within  this  basket  at  the 
jowls  what  Master  William  have  sent  you.  Maybe  as 
they'll  go  to  your  heart  straighter  nor  what  any  words 
might. 

[JOHN  sits  down  on  the  bench  by  JULIA  and  opens 
the  basket.    JULIA  looks  in. 

JULIA.     I  have  no  liking  for  pigs'  meat  myself. 

JOHN.  Master's  pig  meat  be  different  to  any  in  the 
county,  mistress.  "  Tell  her,"  says  Master  William, 
"  'tis  a  rare  fine  bit  of  mellow  jowl  as  I  be  a  sending  she." 

JULIA.     0  John,  I'm  a  very  poor  judge  of  such  things. 

JOHN.  And  look  you  here.  I  never  seed  a  bit  of 
Master  William's  home-cured  sent  out  beyond  the 
family  to  no  one  till  this  day.  No,  that  I  have  not, 
mistress. 

JULIA.  [Shutting  the  basket.]  Well — I  have  no  use 
for  such  a  gift,  John,  so  it  may  be  returned  again  to  the 
family.  I  am  sorry  you  had  the  trouble  of  bringing  it 
so  far. 

JOHN.  You  may  not  be  partial  to  pig  meat,  mistress, 
but  you'll  send  back  the  key  of  Master  William's  heart 
same  as  you  have  done  the  jowls. 

JULIA.  I  have  no  use  for  the  key  of  Master  William's 
heart  either,  John.  And  you  may  tell  him  so,  from  me. 

JOHN.  Why,  mistress.  You  don't,  know  what  you 
be  a  talking  of.  A  man  like  my  master  have  never  had 


36  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

to  take  a  No  in  place  of  Yes  in  all  the  born  days  of  him. 

JULIA.  [Rising.]  Then  he'll  have  to  take  it  now, 
John.  And  I'm  thinking  'tis  time  you  set  off  home 
again  with  your  load. 

JOHN.  Well,  mistress,  I  don't  particular  care  to  go 
afore  you  have  given  me  a  good  word  or  sommat  as'll 
hearten  up  poor  Master  William  in  his  love  sickness. 

JULIA.  Truly,  John,  I  don't  know  what  you  would 
have  me  say. 

JOHN.  I  warrant  there  be  no  lack  of  words  to  the 
inside  of  you,  if  so  be  as  you'd  open  you  mouth  a  bit 
wider.  'Tis  not  silence  as  a  maid  is  troubled  with  in 
general. 

JULIA.  0, 1  have  plenty  of  words  ready,  John,  should 
you  care  to  hear  them. 

JOHN.  Then  out  with  them,  Mistress  Julia,  and  tell 
the  master  as  how  you'll  take  the  offer  what  he  have 
made  you. 

JULIA.  I've  never  seen  your  master,  John,  but  I 
know  quite  enough  about  him  to  say  I'll  never  wed  with 
him.  Please  to  make  that  very  clear  when  you  get 
back. 

JOHN.  'Tis  plain  as  you  doesn't  know  what  you  be  a 
talking  of.  And  'tis  a  wonder  as  how  such  foolishness 
can  came  from  the  mouth  of  a  sensible  looking  maid  like 
yourself. 

JULIA.     I  shall  not  marry  Master  William  Gardner. 

JOHN.  I  reckon  as  you'll  be  glad  enough  to  eat  up 
every  one  of  them  words  the  day  you  claps  eyes  on 
Master  William,  for  a  more  splendid  gentleman  nor  he 
never  fetched  his  breath. 

JULIA.     I'll  never  wed  a  farmer,  John. 

JOHN.  And  then,  look  at  the  gift  what  Master 
William's  been  and  sent  you.  'Tisn't  to  everyone  as 
master  do  part  with  his  pig  meat.  That  'tisn't. 

JULIA.  [Rising.]  Well,  you  can  tell  your  master 
I'm  not  one  that  can  be  courted  with  a  jowl,  mellow  or 
otherwise.  And  that  I'll  not  wed  until  I  can  give  my 
heart  along  with  my  hand. 


ACTU  MY   MAN   JOHN  37 

JOHN.  I'd  like  to  know  where  you  would  find  a  better 
one  nor  master  for  to  give  your  heart  to,  mistress  ? 

JULIA.     May  be  I  have  not  far  to  search. 

JOHN.  [Taking  up  the  basket.]  You're  a  rare  tricksy 
maid  as  ever  I  did  see.  Tricksy  and  tossy  too. 

JULIA.  There — that's  enough,  John.  Suppose  you 
set  off  home  and  tell  your  master  he  can  hang  up 
his  meat  again  in  the  larder,  for  all  that  it  concerns  me. 

JOHN.  I'll  be  blowed  if  I  do  say  anything  of  the  sort, 
mistress.  I  shall  get  and  tell  Master  William  as  you 
be  giving  a  bit  of  thought  to  the  matter,  and  that  jowls 
not  being  to  your  fancy,  'tis  very  like  as  a  dish  of  trotters 
may  prove  acceptabler. 

JULIA.  Say  what  you  like,  John.  Only  let  me  bide 
quiet  in  this  good  forest  now.  I  want  to  be  with  my 
thoughts. 

JOHN.  [Preparing  to  go  and  speaking  aloud  to  himself.] 
Her's  a  wonderful  contrary  bird  to  be  sure.  And 
bain't  a  shy  one  neither,  what  gets  timid  and  flustered 
and  is  easily  netted.  My  word,  but  me  and  master  has 
a  job  before  us  for  to  catch  she. 

JULIA.  I  hear  you,  and  'tis  very  rudely  that  you  talk. 
There's  an  old  saying  that  I  never  could  see  the  meaning 
of  before,  but  now  I  think  'tis  clear,  "Like  master,  like 
man,"  they  say.  I'll  have  none  of  Master  William,  and 
you  can  tell  him  so. 

[JOHN  goes  out  angrily.    JULIA  sits  down  again 
on  the  bench  and  begins  to  sing. 

JULIA.     [Singing.] 

My  gardener  stood  by 
And  told  me  to  take  great  care, 
For  in  the  middle  of  a  red  rose-bud 
There  grows  a  sharp  thorn  there. 

[LAURA    comes    slowly  forward,    carrying    the 
basket  of  vegetables  on  one  arm.     She  holds 
a  handkerchief  to  her  face  and  is  crying. 
JULIA.     Why,  Laura,  what  has  made  you  cry  so 
sadly? 


38  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  n 

LAURA.  0,  Julia,  'twas  a  rare  red  rose  as  I  held  in 
my  hand,  and  a  rare  cruel  thorn  that  came  from  it  and 
did  prick  me. 

JULIA.  And  a  rare  basket  of  green  stuff  that  you 
have  been  getting. 

LAURA.  [Sinking  down  on  the  seat,  and  weeping 
violently.]  His  dear  gift  to  me  ! 

JULIA.  [Looking  into  the  basket.]  0  a  wonderful 
fine  gift,  to  be  sure.  Young  carrots  and  spring  cabbage. 
I've  had  a  gift  offered  too— but  mine  was  jowls. 

LAURA.     Jowls.     0,  and  did  you  not  take  them  ? 

JULIA.  No,  I  sent  them  back  to  the  giver,  with  the 
dry  heart  which  was  along  with  them  in  the  same 
basket. 

LAURA.  O  Julia,  how  could  you  be  so  hard  and 
cruel  1 

JULIA.    Come,  wouldn't  you  have  done  the  same  ? 

LAURA.  [Sobbing  vehemently.]  That  I  should  not, 
Julia. 

JULIA.     Perhaps  you've  seen  the  gentleman  then  ? 

LAURA.  I  have.  And  O,  Julia,  he  is  a  beautiful 
gentleman.  I  never  saw  one  that  was  his  like. 

JULIA.     The  rare  red  rose  with  its  thorn,  Laura. 

LAURA.  He  did  lay  the  heart  of  him  before  me — 
thinking  my  name  was  Julia. 

JULIA.     And  did  he  lay  the  vegetables  too  ? 

LAURA.  'Twas  all  the  doing  of  a  great  fool,  that  man 
of  bis. 

JULIA.  And  you — did  you  give  him  what  he  asked 
of  you — before  he  knew  that  your  name  was  not  Julia  ? 

LAURA.     0,  I  did — that  I  did.  [A  short  silence. 

JULIA.  And  could  you  forget  the  prick  of  the  thorn, 
did  you  hold  the  rose  again,  Laura  ? 

LAURA.  O  that  I  could.  For  me  there'd  be  naught 
but  the  rose,  were  it  laid  once  more  in  my  hand.  But 
'tis  not  likely  to  be  put  there,  since  'tis  you  he  favours. 

JULIA.     But  I  don't  favour  him. 

LAURA.  You'll  favour  him  powerful  well  when  you 
see  him,  Julia. 


ACT  n  MY   MAN   JOHN  39 

JULIA.  I've  given  my  heart  already,  but  'tis  not  to 
him. 

LAURA.     You've  given  your  heart  ? 

JULIA.  Yes,  Chris  has  all  of  it,  Laura.  There  is 
nothing  left  for  anyone  else  in  the  world. 

LAURA.     O  Julia,  think  of  your  position. 

JULIA  That  I  will  not  do.  I  am  going  to  think  of 
yours. 

LAURA.  [Beginning  to  cry.]  I'm  no  better  in  my 
station  than  a  serving  maid,  like  Susan. 

JULIA.  [Pointing.]  There  she  comes  [calling]  Susan, 
Susan ! 

[SusAN  conies  up.  During  the  next  sentences 
LAURA  takes  one  bunch  of  vegetables  after 
another  from  the  basket,  smoothing  each  in 
turn  with  a  fond  caressing  movement. 

SUSAN.     Did  you  call,  mistress, 

JULIA.     Yes,  Susan.     That  I  did. 

SUSAN.     Can  I  help  you  in  any  way,  Miss  Julia  ? 

JULIA.  Yes,  and  that  you  can.  You  have  got  to 
run  quickly  back  to  the  farm. 

SUSAN.     Be  it  got  terrible  late,  mistress  ? 

JULIA.  'Tis  not  only  that.  You  have  got  to  find 
your  master  and  tell  him  to  expect  a  visit  from  me  in 
less  than  an  hour's  time  from  now.  Do  you  under- 
stand ? 

SUSAN.  0,  yes,  mistress,  and  that  I  do — to  tell 
master  as  you  be  coming  along  after  he  as  fast  as  you  can 
run. 

JULIA.  Well — I  should  not  have  put  it  in  that  way, 
but  'tis  near  enough  may  be.  So  off,  and  make  haste, 
Susan. 

SUSAN.  Please,  mistress,  I  could  make  the  words  have 
a  more  loving  sound  to  them  if  you  do  wish  it. 

JULIA.  My  goodness,  Susan,  what  are  you  thinking 
of  ?  Say  naught,  but  that  I'm  coming.  Run  away 
now,  and  run  quickly.  [SUSAN  goes  off. 

LAURA.  [Looking  up,  a  bunch  of  carrots  in  her  hands.] 
What  are  you  going  to  do  now,  Julia  ? 


40  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  in 

JULIA.  You  shall  see,  when  you  have  done  playing 
with  those  carrots. 

LAURA.  He  pulled  them,  every  one,  with  his  own 
hands,  Julia. 

JULIA.  My  love  has  gathered  something  better  for 
me  than  a  carrot.  See,  a  spray  of  elder  bloom  that  was 
tossing  ever  so  high  in  the  wind. 

[She  takes  a  branch  of  elder  flower  from  her  dress, 

and  shews  it  to  LAURA. 

LAURA.  The  roots  that  lie  warm  in  the  earth  do  seem 
more  homely  like  to  me. 

JULIA.    Well — each  one  has  their  own  way  in  love — 

and  mine  lies  through  the  dark  woods,  and  yours  is  in 

the  vegetable  garden.     And  'tis  your  road  that  we  will 

take  this  afternoon — so  come  along  quickly  with  me, 

Laura,  for  the  sun  has  already  begun  to  change  its  light. 

[LAURA  replaces  the  vegetables  in  her  basket  and 

rises  from  the  seat  as  the  curtain  falls. 


ACT  III.— Scene  1. 

The  Garden  of  Road  Farm  as  in  Act  I. 

MRS.   GARDNER  is  knitting  in  the  Arbour.    WILLIAM 
strolls  about  gloomily,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  And  serve  you  right,  William,  for 
sending  the  man  when  you  should  have  gone  yourself. 

WILLIAM.  John  has  a  tongue  that  is  better  used  to 
this  sort  of  business  than  mine. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Nonsense,  when  was  one  of  our 
family  ever  known  to  fail  in  the  tongue. 

WILLIAM.  If  she  that  was  asked  first  had  only  been 
the  right  one,  all  would  have  been  over  and  done  with 
now. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Tis  John  that  you  have  got  to 
thank  for  the  blunder. 


ACT  m  MY   MAN   JOHN  41 

WILLIAM.  [Sighing.]  That  was  a  rare  fine  maid, 
and  no  mistake. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  And  a  rare  brazen  hussy,  from  all 
that  has  reached  my  ears. 

WILLIAM.  Well — I've  done  with  courting — now  and 
for  all  time,  that  I  have.  And  you  may  roast  me  alive 
if  I'll  ever  go  nigh  to  a  maid  again. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  That  you  shall,  William — and  quickly 
too.  There's  no  time  like  the  present,  and  your  Sunday 
clothes  are  upon  you  still. 

WILLIAM.     I  was  just  going  up  to  change,  Mother. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Then  you'll  please  to  remain  as 
you  are.  You  may  take  what  gift  you  like  along  with 
you  this  time,  so  long  as  it's  none  of  my  home-cured 
meat. 

WILLIAM.  I'm  blessed  if  I  do  stir  out  again  this  day. 
Why,  look  at  the  seedlings  crying  for  water,  and  the 
nets  to  lay  over  the  fruit  and  sommat  of  everything 
wanting  to  be  done  all  around  of  me.  I'll  not  stir. 

[JOHN  comes  towards  them. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Here's  John.  Suppose  he  were  to 
make  himself  useful  in  the  garden  for  once  instead  of 
meddling  in  things  that  are  none  of  his  business. 

JOHN.  I'll  be  blowed  if  'tis  any  more  courting  as  I'll 
do,  neither  for  Master  William  nor  on  my  own  account. 

WILLIAM.  Why,  John,  'twasn't  your  fault  that  the 
lady  wouldn't  take  me,  you  did  your  best  with  her,  I 
know. 

JOHN.  An  that  I  did,  Master  William,  but  a  more 
contrary  coxsy  sort  of  a  maid  I  never  did  see.  "  I  baint 
one  as  fancies  pig  meat,"  her  did  say.  And  the  nose  of 
she  did  curl  away  up  till  it  could  go  no  higher.  That's 
not  the  wench  for  me,  I  says  to  myself. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Is  the  jowl  hung  up7 in  its  right 
place  again,  John  ? 

JOHN.  That  'tis,  mistress.  I  put  it  back  myself, 
and  a  good  job  for  that  'taint  went  out  of  the  family  and 
off  to  the  mouths  of  strangers,  so  says  I. 

MRS.  GARDNER.     Do  you  tend  to  Master  William's 


42  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  m 

garden  John,  instead  of  talking.  We've  had  enough 
of  your  tongue  for  one  day. 

JOHN.  Why,  be  Master  William  goin'  out  for  to 
court  again,  this  afternoon  ? 

WILLIAM.  No,  John — No,  I've  had  enough  of  that 
for  my  life  time. 

JOHN.  So  have  I,  master,  and  more  nor  enough.  I 
don't  care  particular  if  I  never  set  eyes  on  a  maid 
again. 

WILLIAM.  [Pointing  to  a  plot  of  ground.]  That's 
where  I  pulled  the  young  carrots  this  morning. 

JOHN.     Ah,  and  so  you  did,  master. 

WILLIAM.  And  there's  from  where  I  took  the  Early 
Snowballs. 

JOHN.  And  a  great  pity  as  you  did.  There  be  none 
too  many  of  that  sort  here. 

WILLIAM.  She  had  a  wonderful  soft  look  in  her  eyes 
as  she  did  handle  them  and  the  spring  cabbage,  John. 

JOHN.  Ah,  and  a  wonderful  hard  tongue  when  her 
knowed  'twasn't  for  she  as  they  was  pulled. 

WILLIAM.  Was  t'other  maid  anything  of  the  same 
pattern,  John  ? 

JOHN.  Upon  my  word,  if  t'other  wasn't  the  worst 
of  the  two,  for  she  did  put  a  powerful  lot  of  venom  into 
the  looks  as  she  did  give  I,  and  the  words  did  fall  from 
she  like  so  many  bricks  on  my  head. 

WILLIAM.    Pity  the  first  was  not  the  right  maid. 

JOHN.  Ah,  a  maid  what  can  treat  a  prime  home- 
cured  jowl  as  yon  did  baint  the  sort  for  to  mistress  it 
over  we,  I'm  thinking. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  See  here,  John — suppose  you  were 
to  let  your  tongue  bide  still  in  its  home  awhile,  and 
start  doing  something  with  your  hands. 

JOHN.  That's  right  enough,  mistress.  What's  wanted, 
Master  William  ? 

WILLIAM.  I'm  blessed  if  I  can  recollect,  John. 
This  courting  business  lies  heavy  on  me,  and  I  don't  seem 
able  to  get  above  it,  like. 

JOHN.     I'd  let  it  alone,  master,  if  I  was  you.    They  be 


ACT  m  MY   MAN   JOHN  43 

all  alike,  the  maids.  And  'twouldn't  be  amiss  if  we  was 
to  serve  they  as  we  serves  the  snails  when  they  gets  to 
the  young  plants. 

[SusAN  comes  hurriedly  into  the  garden. 

SUSAN.     Please  master,  please  mistress. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  What  do  you  mean,  Susan,  by  com- 
ing into  the  garden  without  your  cap  ?  Go  and  put  it 
on  at  once. 

SUSAN.  The  wind  must  have  lifted  it  from  me, 
mistress,  for  I  was  running  ever  so  fast. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that, 
Susan — and  not  a  breath  stirring  the  flowers  or  trees, 
or  anything  ? 

SUSAN.  'Twas  the  lady  I  met  as — as — as  I  was 
coming  across  the  field  from  feeding  the  fowls. 

MRS.  GARDNER.    What  lady,  Susan  ? 

SUSAN.     Her  from  Luther's,  mistress. 

JOHN.     And  what  of  she ;  out  with  it,  wench. 

SUSAN.  She  did  tell  I  to  say  as  she  be  coming  along 
as  fast  as  she  may  after  Master  William. 

WILLIAM.  [As  though  to  himself  with  an  accent  of 
despair.]  No.  No. 

JOHN.     There,  master,  didn't  I  tell  you  so  ? 

WILLIAM.  [Very  nervously.]  What  did  you  tell  me, 
John  ? 

JOHN.  That,  let  her  abide  and  her'd  find  the  senses 
of  she  presently. 

WILLIAM.     0  I'm  blessed  if  I  do  know  what  to  do. 

[JOHN  takes  his  master's  arm  and  draws  him 
aside. 

JOHN.  You  pluck  up  your  heart,  my  dearest  master, 
and  court  she  hard.  And  in  less  nor  a  six  months  'tis 
along  to  church  as  you'll  be  a-driving  she. 

WILLIAM.  But  John,  'tis  t'other  with  the  cherry 
ribbons  that  has  taken  all  my  fancy. 

JOHN.  No,  no,  Master  William.  You  take  and  court 
the  mistress.  You  take  and  tame  the  young  vixen,  and 
get  the  gold  and  silver  from  she.  T'other  wench  is  but 
the  serving  maid. 


44  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  ra 

SUSAN.  The  lady's  coming  along  ever  so  quickly, 
master. 

[MRS.   GARDNER,   rising   and  folding   up   her 
knitting. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  You'll  please  to  come  indoors  with 
me,  William,  and  I'll  brush  you  down  and  make  you  look 
more  presentable  than  you  appear  just  now.  Susan, 
you'll  get  a  cap  to  you  head  at  once,  do  you  hear  me ! 
And  John,  take  and  water  master's  seedlings.  Any  one 
can  stand  with  their  mouths  open  and  their  eyes  as  big 
as  gooseberries  if  they've  a  mind.  'Tis  not  particular 
sharp  to  do  so.  Come,  William. 

WILLIAM.  I'd  like  a  word  or  two  with  John  first, 
Mother. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  You  come  along  with  me  this 
moment,  William.  'Tis  a  too  many  words  by  far  that 
you've  had  with  John  already,  and  much  good  they've 
done  to  you.  Come  you  in  with  me. 

WILLIAM.  0  I'm  blessed  if  I  do  know  whether  'tis 
on  my  head  or  on  my  feet  that  I'm  standing. 

[WiLLLAM  follows  his  mother  slowly  and  gloomily 
into  the  house. 

JOHN.  Well — if  ever  there  was  a  poor,  tormented 
animal  'tis  the  master. 

SUSAN.  Ah,  mistress  should  have  been  born  a  drover 
by  rights.  'Tis  a  grand  nagging  one  as  her'd  have  made, 
and  sommat  what  no  beast  would  ever  have  got  the 
better  of. 

JOHN.  I  wouldn't  stand  in  Master  William's  shoes, 
not  if  you  was  to  put  me  knee  deep  in  gold. 

SUSAN.    Nor  I. 

JOHN.  Ah,  this  courting  business,  'tis  a  rare  caddling 
muddle  when  'tis  all  done  and  said. 

SUSAN.  'Tis  according  as  some  folks  do  find  it,  Master 
John. 

JOHN.  'Tis  a  smartish  lot  as  you'll  get  of  it  come 
Sunday  night,  my  wench.  You  wait  and  see. 

SUSAN.  That  shews  how  little  you  do  know.  'Twill 
be  better  nor  ever  with  me  then. 


ACT  in  MY   MAN   JOHN  45 

JOHN.  'Twill  be  alone  by  yourself  as  you'll  go  walk- 
ing, Su. 

SUSAN.  We'll  see  about  that  when  the  time  comes, 
John. 

JOHN.  All  I  says  is  that  I  baint  a-going  walking  with 
you. 

SUSAN.     I  never  walk  with  two,  John. 

JOHN.  You'll  have  to  learn  to  go  in  your  own 
company. 

SUSAN.  I  shall  go  by  the  side  of  my  husband  by  then, 
very  likely. 

JOHN.  Your  husband  ?  What  tales  be  you  a-giving 
out  now  ? 

SUSAN.     Tis  to  Nat  as  I'm  to  be  wed  come  Saturday. 

JOHN.  Get  along  with  you,  Susan,  and  put  a  cap  to 
your  head.  Mistress  will  be  coming  out  presently,  and 
then  you  know  how  'twill  be  if  her  catches  you  so.  Get 
along  in  with  you. 

SUSAN.  Now  you  don't  believe  what  I'm  telling  you 
— but  it's  true,  0  it's  true. 

JOHN.  Look  here — There's  company  at  the  gate,  and 
you  a-standing  there  like  any  rough  gipsy  wench  on  the 
road.  Get  you  in  and  make  yourself  a  decenter  appear- 
ance and  then  go  and  tell  the  mistress  as  they  be  corned. 

SUSAN.  [Preparing  to  go  indoors  and  speaking  over  her 
shoulder.]  'Tis  in  the  parson's  gown  as  you  should  be 
clothed,  Master  John.  Ah,  'tis  a  wonderful  wordy 
preacher  as  you  would  make,  to  be  sure.  And  'tis  a 
rare  crop  as  one  might  raise  with  the  seed  as  do  fall  from 
your  mouth. 

[She  goes  indoors.    JULIA  comes  leisurely  into 
the  garden. 

JULIA.     Well,  John,  and  how  are  you  feeling  now  ? 

JOHN.     Nicely,  thank  you,  mistress.     See  yon  arbour  ? 

JULIA.     And  that  I  do,  John. 

JOHN.  Well,  you  may  go  and  sit  within  it  till  the 
master  has  leisure  to  come  and  speak  with  you. 

JULIA.  Thank  you,  John,  but  I  would  sooner  stop 
and  watch  you  tend  the  flowers. 


46  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  m 

JOHN.  Tis  all  one  to  me  whether  you  does  or  you 
does  not. 

JULIA.     Now,  John,  you  are  angry  with  me  still. 

JOHN.  I  likes  a  wench  as  do  know  the  mind  of  she, 
and  not  one  as  can  blow  hot  one  moment  and  cold  the 
next. 

JULIA.  There  was  never  a  moment  when  I  did  not 
know  my  own  mind,  John.  And  that's  the  truth. 

JOHN.  Well,  us  won't  say  no  more  about  that. 
'Taint  fit  as  there  should  be  ill  feeling  nor  quarrelling 
'twixt  me  and  you. 

JULIA.  You're  right,  John.  And  there  was  some- 
thing that  I  had  it  in  my  mind  to  ask  you. 

JOHN.  You  can  say  your  fill.  There  baint  no  one  but 
me  in  the  garden. 

JULIA.  John,  you  told  me  that  since  Sunday  your 
master  has  been  sick  with  love. 

JOHN.  That's  right  enough,  mistress.  I  count  as  we 
shall  bury  he  if  sommat  don't  come  to  his  relief. 

JULIA.  Now,  John,  do  you  look  into  my  eyes  and  tell 
me  if  'tis  for  love  of  Julia  or  of  Laura  that  your  master 
lies  sickening. 

JOHN.  You'd  best  go  and  ask  it  of  his  self,  mistress. 
'Tis  a  smartish  lot  of  work  as  I've  got  to  attend  to  here. 

JULIA.  You  can  go  on  working,  John.  I  am  not 
hindering  you. 

JOHN.  No  more  than  one  of  they  old  Juney  bettels 
a-roaring  and  a-buzzin  round  a  man's  head. 

JULIA.  Now,  John — you  must  tell  me  which  of  the 
two  it  is.  Is  it  Laura  whom  your  master  loves,  or 
Julia  ? 

JOHN.  'Tis  Julia,  then,  since  you  will  have  it  out  of 
me. 

JULIA.  No,  John,  you're  not  looking  straight  at  me. 
You  are  looking  down  at  the  flower  bed.  Let  your  eyes 
meet  mine. 

JOHN.  [Looking  up  crossly.]  I've  got  my  work  to 
think  of.  I'm  not  one  to  stand  cackling  with  a  maid. 

JULIA.     Could  you  swear  me  it  is  Julia  ? 


ACT  in  MY   MAN   JOHN  47 

JOHN.  Tis  naught  to  I  which  of  you  it  be.  There 
bide  over,  so  as  I  can  get  the  watering  finished. 

JULIA.  [Seizes  the  watering  can.]  Now,  John,  you 
have  got  to  speak  the  truth  to  me. 

JOHN.  Give  up  yon  can,  I  tell  you.  0  you  do  act 
wonderful  unseemly  for  a  young  lady. 

JULIA.  [Withholding  the  can.]  Not  till  I  have  the 
truth  from  you. 

JOHN.  [Angrily.]  Well  then,  is  it  likely  that  my 
master  would  set  his  fancy  on  such  a  plaguy,  wayward 
maid  ?  Why,  Master  William  do  know  better  nor  to 
do  such  a  thing,  I  can  tell  you. 

JULIA.     Then  'tis  for  Laura  that  he  is  love-sick,  John. 

JOHN.     Give  I  the  watering  can. 

JULIA.     [Giving  him  the  can.]    Here  it  is,  dear  John. 

0  I  had  a  fancy  all  the  time  that  'twas  to  Laura  your 
master  had  lost  his  heart.     And  now  I  see  I  made  no 
mistake. 

JOHN.  I  shouldn't  have  spoke  as  I  did  if  you  hadn't 
a  buzzed  around  I  till  I  was  drove  very  nigh  crazy. 
Master  William,  he'll  never  forgive  me  this. 

JULIA.  That  he  will,  I'm  sure,  when  he  has  listened  to 
what  I  have  got  to  say  to  him. 

JOHN.  You  do  set  a  powerful  store  on  what  your 
tongue  might  say,  but  I'd  take  and  bide  quiet  at  home  if 

1  was  you  and  not  come  hunting  of  a  nice  reasonable 
gentleman  like  master,  out  of  his  very  garden. 

JULIA.  0  John,  you're  a  sad,  ill-natured  man,  and 
you  mis j  udge  me  very  unkindly .  But  I  '11  not  bear  malice 
if  you  will  just  run  in  and  tell  your  master  that  I  want  a 
word  with  him. 

JOHN.  A  word  ?  Why  not  say  fifty  ?  When  was 
a  maid  ever  satisfied  with  one  word  I'd  like  to  know  ? 

JULIA.     Well — I  shan't  say  more  than  six,  very  likely, 

so  fetch  him  to  me  now,  John,  and  I'll  wait  here  in  the 

garden.         [JOHN  looks  at  her  with  exasperated  contempt. 

Then  he  slowly  walks  away  towards   the 

house.    JULIA  goes  in  the  opposite  direction 

to  the  garden  gate. 


48  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  ni 

JULIA.     [Calling.]    Chris !  [CHRIS    comes    in 

JULIA.  [Pointing.]  0  Chris,  look  at  this  fine  garden 
— and  yon  arbour — see  the  fine  house,  with  lace  curtains 
to  the  windows  of  it. 

CHRIS.     [Sullenly.]    Ah — I  sees  it  all  very  well. 

JULIA.  And  all  this  could  be  mine  for  the  stretching 
out  of  a  hand. 

CHRIS.     Then  stretch  it. 

JULIA.  'T would  be  like  putting  a  wild  bird  into  a 
gilded  cage,  to  set  me  here  in  this  place.  No,  I  must  go 
free  with  you,  Chris — and  we  will  wander  where  our 
spirits  lead  us — over  all  the  world  if  we  have  a  mind  to 
do  so. 

CHRIS.     Please  God  you'll  not  grieve  at  your  choice. 

JULIA.  That  I  never  shall.  Now  call  to  Laura.  Is 
she  in  the  lane  outside  ? 

CHRIS.    There,  she  be  come  to  the  gate  now. 

[LAURA  comes  in,  followed  by  NAT  and  TANSIE. 

JULIA.  [Pointing  to  a  place  on  the  ground.]  Laura, 
see,  here  is  the  place  from  which  your  young  carrots 
were  pulled. 

LAURA.  0  look  at  the  flowers,  Julia — Lillies,  pinks 
and  red  roses. 

JULIA.  'Tis  a  fine  red  rose  that  shall  be  gathered  for 
you  presently,  Laura.  [JOHN  comes  up. 

JOHN.     The  master's  very  nigh  ready  now,  mistress. 

[SuSAN  follows  him. 

SUSAN.  The  mistress  says,  please  to  be  seated  till  she 
do  come. 

JOHN.  [To  CHRIS  and  NAT.]  Now,  my  men,  we 
don't  want  the  likes  of  you  in  here.  You  had  best  get 
off  afore  Master  William  catches  sight  of  you. 

JULIA.  No,  John.  These  are  my  friends,  and  I  wish 
them  to  hear  all  that  I  have  to  say  to  your  master. 

JOHN.  Ah,  'tis  in  the  grave  as  poor  Master  William 
will  be  landed  soon  if  you  don't  have  a  care. 

LAURA.  [Anxiously.]  0  is  he  so  delicate  as  that, 
John  ? 

JOHN.     Ah — and  that  he  be.     And  these  here  love 


ACT  m  MY   MAN   JOHN  49 

matters  and  courtings  and  foolishness  have  very  nigh 
done  for  he.  I  don't  give  him  but  a  week  longer  if 
things  do  go  on  as  they  be  now. 

[WILLIAM  and  MRS.  GARDNER  come  in.  WILLIAM 
looks  nervously  round  him.  MRS.  GARDNER 
perceives  the  gipsies,  and  SUSAN  talking  to 
NAT. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  Susan,  get  you  to  your  place  in  the 
kitchen,  as  quick  as  you  can.  John,  put  yon  roadsters 
through  the  gate,  if  you  please.  [Turning  to  JULIA.] 
Now  young  Miss  ? 

JULIA.  A  very  good  evening  to  you,  mistress.  And  let 
me  make  Chris  known  to  you  for  he  and  I  are  to  be  wed 
to-morrow. 

[She  takes  CHRIS  by  the  hand  and  leads  him  forward. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  What's  this  ?  William,  do  you 
understand  what  the  young  person  is  telling  us  ? 

JULIA.  [Taking  LAURA  with  her  other  hand.]  And 
here  is  Laura  to  whom  I  have  given  all  my  land  and  all 
my  money.  She  is  the  mistress  of  Luther's  now. 

JOHN.  [Aside  to  WILLIAM.]  Now  master,  hearken 
to  that.  Can't  you  lift  your  spirits  a  bit. 

JULIA.  [To  MRS.  GARDNER.]  And  I  beg  you  to 
accept  her  as  a  daughter.  She  will  make  a  better 
farmer's  wife  than  ever  I  shall. 

JOHN.     [In  a  loud  whisper.]    Start  courting,  master. 

WILLIAM.     0  I  dare  not  quite  so  sudden,  John. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  [Sitting  down.]  It  will  take  a  few 
moments  for  me  to  understand  this  situation. 

JULIA.  There  is  no  need  for  any  hurry.  We  have  all 
the  evening  before  us. 

JOHN.  [Hastily  gathers  a  rosebud  and  puts  it  into 
WILLIAM'S  hand.]  Give  her  a  blossom,  master.  Tis 
an  easy  start  off. 

WILLIAM.  [Coming  forward  shyly  with  the  flower.] 
Would  you  fancy  a  rosebud,  mistress  ? 

LAURA.     0  that  I  would,  master. 

WILLIAM.  Should  you  care  to  see — to  see  where  the 
young  celery  is  planted  out  ? 


50  MY   MAN   JOHN  ACT  in 

LAURA.     O,  I'd  dearly  love  to  see  the  spot. 

WILLIAM.  I'll  take  you  along  to  it  then.  [He  gives 
her  his  arm,  very  awkwardly,  and  they  move  away. 

MBS.  GARDNER.  [Sitting  down.]  Well — things  have 
changed  since  I  was  young. 

JOHN.  [Looking  viciously  at  NAT  and  SUSAN.]  Ah,  I 
counts  they  have,  mistress,  and  'tis  all  for  the  worse. 

SUSAN.  [Comes  forward  timidly.]  And  me  and  Nat 
are  to  be  married  too,  mistress. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  I  should  have  given  you  notice 
anyhow  to-night,  Susan,  so  perhaps  it's  just  as  well  you 
have  made  sure  of  some  sort  of  a  roof  to  your  head. 

NAT.  'Twill  be  but  the  roof  of  th'  old  cart,  mistress  ; 
but  I  warrant  as  her'll  sleep  bravely  under  it,  won't 
you,  Su. 

SUSAN.    That  I  shall,  dear  Nat. 

TANSIE.  Well,  Master  John,  have  you  a  fancy  to 
come  tenting  along  of  we. 

JOHN.  Upon  my  word,  but  I  don't  know  how  'tis 
with  the  young  people  nowadays,  they  be  so  bold. 

JULIA.  [Who  has  been  standing  apart,  her  hand  in  that 
of  CHRIS.]  New  days,  new  ways,  John. 

JOHN.  Bless  my  soul,  but  'tis  hard  to  keep  up  with 
all  these  goings  on,  and  no  mistake. 

JULIA.  No  need  for  you  to  try,  John.  If  you  are  too 
old  to  run  with  us  you  must  abide  still  and  watch  us  as 
we  go. 

CHRIS.  But  there,  you  needn't  look  downhearted, 
master,  for  I  knows  someone  as'll  give  you  a  rare  warm 
welcome  if  so  be  as  you  should  change  your  mind  and 
take  your  chance  in  the  open,  same  as  we. 

TANSIE.    You  shall  pay  for  that,  Chris. 

JOHN.  [Stiffly.]  I  hope  as  I've  a  properer  sense  of 
my  duty  nor  many  others  what  I  could  name. 

MRS.  GARDNER.    Those  are  the  first  suitable  words 
that  have  been  spoken  in  my  hearing  this  afternoon. 
[WILLIAM,   with  LAURA  on  his  arm,  returns. 
LAURA    carries    a    small    cucumber    very 
lovingly. 


ACT  m  MY   MAN   JOHN  51 

LAURA.  Julia,  look !  The  first  one  of  the  season ! 
O,  isn't  it  a  picture  ! 

JTJLIA.     0  Laura,  'tis  a  fine  wedding  gift  to  be  sure. 

WILLIAM.  [Stepping  up  to  JOHN.]  John,  my  man,  here's 
a  five  pound  note  to  your  pocket.  I'd  never  have  won 
this  lady  here  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you. 

JOHN.  [Taking  the  note.]  Don't  name  it,  dear 
master.  'Tis  a  long  courtship  what  has  no  ending  to  it, 
so  I  always  says. 

MRS.  GARDNER.  'Tis  one  upset  after  another,  but 
suppose  you  were  to  make  yourself  useful  for  once, 
Susan,  and  bring  out  the  tray  with  the  cake  and  glasses 
on  it. 

JOHN.  Ah,  that's  it,  and  I'll  go  along  of  she  and  help 
draw  the  cider.  Courtship  be  powerful  drying  work. 

LAURA.  [Looking  into  WILLIAM'S  eyes.]  0  William, 
'twas  those  Early  Snowballs  that  did  first  stir  up  my 
heart. 

WILLIAM.  'Twas  John  who  thought  of  them.  Why, 
John  has  more  sensible  thoughts  to  the  mind  of  him  than 
any  other  man  in  the  world — and  when  the  cider  is 
brought,  'tis  to  John's  health  we  will  all  drink. 

[Curtain.'] 


PRINCESS    ROYAL 


L.  T.  4 


CHARACTERS   IN   THE   PLAY 

ROSE,        I       .„          .  , 

>     village  girls. 
MARION,    J 

LADY  MILLICENT. 

ALICE,  her  maid. 

LEAH,  an  old  gipsy. 

SUSAN,  otherwise  Princess  Royal,  her  grand-daughter. 

JOCKIE,  a  little  swine  herd. 

LADY  CULLEN. 

Her  ladies  in  waiting  (or  one  lady  only). 

LORD  CULLEN,  her  only  son. 


As  many  girls  as  are  needed  for  the  dances  should  be 
in  this  Play. 

The  parts  of  Lord  Cullen  and  Jockie  may  be  played 
by  girls. 


PRINCESS   ROYAL. 


ACT  I.— Scene  1. 

A  milage,  green.  Some  girls  with  market  baskets  come  on 
to  it,  each  one  carrying  a  leaflet  which  she  is  earnestly 
reading. 

Gradually  all  the  girls  approach  from  different  sides 
reading  leaflets. 

Under  a  tree  at  the  far  end  of  the  green  the  old  gipsy  is 
sitting — she  lights  a  pipe  and  begins  to  smoke  as 
ROSE,  her  basket  full  of  market  produce,  comes  slowly 
forward  reading  her  sheet  of  paper.  She  is  followed 
by  MARION — also  reading. 

ROSE.  Well,  'tis  like  to  be  a  fine  set  out,  this  May 
Day. 

MARION.     I  can  make  naught  of  it  myself. 

ROSE.  Why,  'tis  Lord  Cullen  putting  it  about  as 
how  he  be  back  from  the  war  and  thinking  of  getting 
himself  wed,  like. 

MARION.    I  understands  that  much,  I  do. 

ROSE.  Only  he  can't  find  the  maid  what  he's  lost  his 
heart  to. 

MARION.  [Reading.]  The  wench  what  his  lordship 
did  see  a-dancing  all  by  herself  in  the  forest  when  he 
was  hid  one  day  all  among  the  brambles,  a-rabbiting  or 
sommat. 

ROSE.  And  when  my  lord  would  have  spoke  with  her, 
the  maid  did  turn  and  fled  away  quick  as  a  weasel. 


4  PRINCESS    ROYAL  ACT  i 

MARION.  And  his  lordship  off  to  the  fighting 
when  'twas  next  morn. 

ROSE.  So  now,  each  maid  of  us  in  the  village  and  all 
around  be  to  dance  upon  the  green  come  May  Day  so 
that  my  lord  may  see  who  'twas  that  pleased  his 
fancy. 

[SusAN  comes  up  and  stands  quietly  listening. 
She  is  bare  foot  and  her  skirt  is  ragged,  she 
wears  a  shawl  over  her  shoulders  and  her 
hair  is  rough  and  untidy.  On  her  arm  she 
carries  a  basket  containing  a  few  vegetables 
and  other  marketings. 

MARION.  And  when  he  do  pitch  upon  the  one,  'tis 
her  as  he  will  wed. 

ROSE.  'Twill  be  a  thing  to  sharpen  the  claws  of  th'old 
countess  worse  nor  ever — that  marriage. 

MARION.  Ah,  I  reckon  as  her  be  mortal  angered  with 
all  the  giddle-gaddle  this  business  have  set  up  among 
the  folk. 

ROSE.  [Regretfully.]  I've  never  danced  among  the 
trees  myself. 

MARION.     [Sadly.']    Nor  I,  neither,  Rose. 

ROSE.    I'd  dearly  like  to  be  a  countess,  Marion. 

MARION.  His  lordship  might  think  I  was  the  maid. 
I'm  spry  upon  my  feet  you  know. 

[SusAN  comes  still  nearer. 

MARION.  [Turning  to  her  and  speaking  rudely.]  Well, 
Princess  Rags,  'tisn't  likely  as  'twas  you  a-dancing  one 
of  your  Morris  dances  in  the  wood  that  day  ! 

ROSE.  [Mockingly.]  'Tisn't  likely  as  his  lordship 
would  set  his  thoughts  on  a  wench  what  could  caper 
about  like  a  Morris  man  upon  the  high  road.  So  there. 

SUSAN.  [Indifferently.]  I  never  danced  upon  the 
high  road,  I  dances  only  where  'tis  dark  with  gloom 
and  no  eyes  upon  me.  No  mortal  eyes. 

MARION.  [Impudently.]  Get  along  with  you,  Princess 
Royal.  Go  off  to  th'  old  gipsy  Gran'ma  yonder.  We 
don't  want  the  likes  of  you  along  of  us. 

ROSE.    Go  off  and  dance  to  your  own  animals,  Miss 


ACT  i  PRINCESS    ROYAL  5 

Goatherd.     All  of  us  be  a-going  to  practise  our  steps 
against  May  Day.     Come  along  girls. 

[She  signs  to  the  other  girls  who  all  draw  near 
and  arrange  themselves  for  a  Country 
Dance.  SUSAN  goes  slowly  towards  her 
GRANDMOTHER  and  sits  on  the  ground  by 
her  side,  looking  sadly  and  wistfully  at  the 
dancers.  At  the  end  of  the  dance,  the  girls 
pick  up  their  baskets  and  go  off  in  different 
directions  across  the  green.  SUSAN  and  her 
GRANDMOTHER  remain  in  their  places. 
The  gipsy  continues  to  smoke  and  SUSAN 
absently  turns  over  the  things  in  her  basket. 
SUSAN.  They  mock  me  in  the  name  they  have  fixed 
to  me — Princess  Royal. 

GRANDMOTHER.  Let  them  mock.  I'll  bring  the 
words  back  to  them  like  scorpions  upon  their  tongues. 

[There  is  a  little  silence  and  then  SUSAN  begins 

to  sing  as  though  to  herself. 
SUSAN.     [Singing.] 

"As  I  walked  out  one  May  morning, 
So  early  in  the  Spring  ; 

I  placed  my  back  against  the  old  garden  gate, 
And  I  heard  my  true  love  sing."1 

GRANDMOTHER.  [At  the  end  of  the  singing.]  It 
might  be  the  blackcap  a-warbling  all  among  of  the 
branches.  So  it  might. 

SUSAN.  Ah,  'twas  I  that  was  a-dancing  in  the  shade 
of  the  woods  that  day. 

GRANDMOTHER.  He'll  never  look  on  the  likes  of  you 
— that's  sure  enough,  my  little  wench. 

SUSAN.  I  wish  he  was  a  goat-herd  like  myself — O 
that  I  do. 

GRANDMOTHER.  Then  there  wouldn't  be  no  use  in 
your  wedding  yourself  with  him  as  I  can  see. 

1  "  As  I  walked  Out."  From  Folk  Songs  from  Essex  collected 
by  R.  Vaughan  Williams.  The  whole,  or  two  verees  can  be 
sung. 


6  PRINCESS    ROYAL  ACT  T 

SUSAN.     Tis  himself,  not  his  riches  that  I  want. 
GRANDMOTHER.     You  be  speaking  foolishness.    What 
do  you  know  of  him — what  do  us  blind  worms  know 
about  the  stars  above  we  ? 

SUSAN.     I  see'd  him  pass  by  upon  his  horse  one  day. 

All  there  was  of  him  did  shine  like  the  sun  upon  the 

water — I  was  very  near  dazed  by  the  brightness .  Sol  was . 

[The    GRANDMOTHER    continues    to    smoke    in 

silence. 

SUSAN.  [Softly.]  And  'twas  then  I  lost  the  heart 
within  me  to  him. 

[JocKiE  runs  up  beating  his  tabor. 
SUSAN.  [Springing  up.]  Come,  Jockie,  I  have  a 
mind  to  dance  a  step  or  two.  [Rubbing  Tier  eyes  with  the 
back  of  her  hands.]  Tears  be  for  them  as  have  idle 
times  and  not  for  poor  wenches  what  mind  cattle  and 
goats.  Come,  play  me  my  own  music,  Jock.  And 
play  it  as  I  do  like  it  best. 

[ JOCKIE  begins  to  play  the  tune  of  "  Princess 
Royal  "  and  SUSAN  dances.  Whilst  SUSAN 
is  dancing  LADY  MILLICENT  and  her 
waiting  maid  come  slowly  by  and  stand 
watching.  SUSAN  suddenly  perceives  them 
and  throws  herself  on  the  ground.  JOCKIE 
stops  playing. 

LADY  MILLICENT.  [Fanning  herself.]  A  wondrous 
bold  dance,  upon  my  word — could  it  have  been  that 
which  captivated  my  lord,  Alice  ? 

ALICE.  0  no,  mistress.  His  lordship  has  no  fancy 
for  boldness  in  a  maid. 

LADY  MILLICENT.  Immodest  too.  A  Morris  dance. 
The  girl  should  hide  her  face  in  shame. 

ALICE.  And  there  she  is,  looking  at  your  ladyship 
with  her  gipsy  eyes,  bold  as  a  brass  farthing. 

SUSAN.  [Starting  up  and  speaking  passionately.]  I'll 
not  be  taunted  for  my  dancing — I  likes  to  dance  wild, 
and  leap  with  my  body  when  my  spirit  leaps,  and  fly 
with  my  limbs  when  my  heart  flies  and  move  in  the  air 
same  as  the  birds  do  move  when  'tisfmating  time. 


ACT  i  PRINCESS    ROYAL  7 

GRANDMOTHEK.  Ah,  'tis  so  with  she.  She  baint  no 
tame  mouse  what  creeps  from  its  hole  along  of  t'others 
and  who  do  go  shuffle  shuffle,  in  and  out  of  the  ring, 
mild  as  milk  and  naught  in  the  innards  of  they  but  the 
squeak. 

SUSAN.  (Defiantly.]  'Twas  my  dance  gained  his 
lordship's  praise — so  there,  fine  madam. 

LADY  MILLICENT.  Your  dance  ?  Who  are  you 
then? 

ALICE.  A  gipsy  wench,  mistress,  who  minds  the 
goats  and  pigs  for  one  of  they  great  farms. 

GRANDMOTHER.  Have  a  care  for  that  tongue  of 
yours,  madam  waiting  maid.  For  I  know  how  to  lay 
sommat  upon  it  what  you  won't  fancy. 

LADY  MILLICENT.  [Coming  up  to  SUSAN  and  laying 
her  hand  on  her  arm.]  Now  tell  me  your  name,  my  girl. 

SUSAN.    They  call  me  Princess  Royal. 

LADY  MILLICENT.  0  that  must  be  in  jest.  Why, 
you  are  clothed  in  rags,  poor  thing. 

SUSAN.  [Shaking  herself  free.]  I'd  sooner  wear  my 
own  rags  nor  the  laces  which  you  have  got  upon  you. 

LADY  MILLICENT.  Now  why  do  you  say  such  a 
thing  ? 

SUSAN.  'Twas  in  these  rags  as  I  danced  in  the  wood 
that  day,  and  'tis  by  these  rags  as  my  lord  will  know  me 
once  more. 

LADY  MILLICENT.  Listen,  I  will  cover  you  in  silk  and 
laces,  Princess  Royal. 

ALICE.    Susan  is  the  maid's  name. 

SUSAN.    I  don't  want  none  of  your  laces  or  silks. 

LADY  MILLICENT.  And  feed  you  with  poultry  and 
cream  and  sweetmeats. 

SUSAN.     I  want  naught  but  my  crust  of  bread. 

LADY  MILLICENT.  I'll  fill  your  hands  with  gold 
pieces. 

GRANDMOTHER.    Do  you  hear  that,  Sue  ? 

SUSAN.     [Doggedly.]    I  hear  her  well  enough,  Gran. 

LADY  MILLICENT.  If  you'll  teach  me  your  dance 
against  May  Day.  Then,  I'll  clothe  myself  much 


8  PRINCESS    ROYAL  ACT  i 

after  your  fashion   and    dance   upon   the  green  with 
the  rest. 

STJSAN.  I'll  not  learn  you  my  dance.  Not  for  all  the 
gold  in  the  world.  You  shan't  go  and  take  the  only 
thing  I  have  away  from  me. 

LADY  MILLICENT.  [Angrily.]  Neither  shall  a  little 
gipsy  wretch  like  you  take  my  love  from  me.  We  were 
as  good  as  promised  to  each  other  at  our  christening. 

ALICE.    Don't   put   yourself   out   for   the 
madam.     His  lordship  would  never  look  on  her. 

GRANDMOTHER.     Gold,  did  you  say,  mistress  ? 

LADY  MILLICENT.  Gold  ?  0  yes — an  apron  full  of 
gold,  and  silver  too. 

GRANDMOTHER.     Do  you  hear  that,  Susan  ? 

SUSAN.    [Doggedly.]    I'll  not  do  it  for  a  King's  ransom. 

GRANDMOTHER.  You  will.  You'll  do  it  for  the  sake 
of  poor  old  Gran,  what's  been  father  and  mother  to  you — 
— and  what's  gone  hungered  and  thirsty  so  that  you 
might  have  bread  and  drink. 

SUSAN.     [Distractedly.]    O  I  can  never  give  him  up. 

GRANDMOTHER.  He'll  never  be  yourn  to  give — 
Dance  till  your  legs  is  off  and  he'll  have  naught  to  say  to 
a  gipsy  brat  when  'tis  all  finished. 

ALICE.  Whilst  my  lady  belongs  to  his  lordship's  own 
class,  'tis  but  suitable  as  she  should  be  the  one  to  wed 
with  him — knowing  the  foreign  tongues  and  all,  and 
playing  so  sweetly  on  her  instruments.  There's  a  lady 
anyone  would  be  proud  to  take  before  the  Court  in 
London. 

[SuSAN  turns  away  with  a  movement  of  despair. 
The  GRANDMOTHER  begins  to  smoke  again. 
LADY  MILLICENT  fans  herself  and  ALICE 
arranges  her  own  shawl. 

GRANDMOTHER.  I  could  do  with  a  little  pig  up  at 
our  place  if  I'd  the  silver  to  take  into  the  market  for  to 
buy  him  with.  [A  silence. 

GRANDMOTHER.  And  I  could  do  with  a  pair  of  good 
shoes  to  my  poor  old  feet  come  winter  time  when  'tis 
snowing.  [Another  silence. 


ACT  n  PRINCESS    ROYAL  9 

GRANDMOTHER.  And  'twould  be  good  not  to  go  to 
bed  with  the  pain  of  hunger  within  my  lean  old  body — 
so  'twould.  [SUSAN  turns  round  suddenly. 

SUSAN.     I'll  do  it,  Gran.     I'll  do  it  for  your  sake.     "Tis 
very  likely  true  what  you  do  say,  all  of  you.     I'd  but 
dance  my  feet  off  for  naught.     When  he  came  to  look 
into  my  gipsy  eyes,  'twould  all  be  over  and  done  with. 
LADY  MILLICENT.    Sensible  girl. 
ALICE.     'Tis  time  she  should  see  which  way  her  bread 
was  spread. 

STJSAN.  Come,  Jockie,  come  ladies — come  Gran — 
we'll  be  off  to  the  quiet  of  our  own  place  where  I  can 
learn  her  ladyship  the  steps  and  capers. 

GRANDMOTHER.  [Rising  and  pointing  to  an  advancing 
figure.]  You'd  best  make  haste.  The  mice  be  a-running 
from  their  holes  once  more— t'wouldn't  do  for  they  to 
know  aught  about  this. 

SUSAN.     Let  us  go  quickly  then. 

[The  GRANDMOTHER,  SUSAN,  LADY  MILLICENT 
with  ALICE  and  JOCKIE  go  out  as  a  crowd 
of  village  girls  come  on  to  the  green,  and 
laughing  and  talking  together,  arrange 
themselves  to  practise  a  Country  Dance. 

End  of  Act  I. 


ACT  II.— Scene  1. 

Groups  of  village  girls  are  sitting  or  standing  about  on  the 
green.     A  dais  has  been  put  up  at  one  end  of  it. 

MARION.     How  slow  the  time  do  pass,  this  May  Day. 

ROSE.     Let's  while  it  away  with  a  song  or  two. 

[They  all  join  in  singing.  At  the  end  of  the  song 
the  gipsy  comes  slowly  and  painfully  across 
the  green,  casting  black  looks  to  right  and  to 
left.  She  is  followed  by  SUSAN,  who 
appears  weighed  down  by  sadness. 


10  PRINCESS    ROYAL  ACT  n 

ROSE.  Good  afternoon,  Princess  Royal  Rags.  Are 
we  to  see  you  cutting  capers  before  his  lordship  this 
afternoon  ? 

MARION.  Get  along  and  hide  your  bare  feet  behind 
the  tree,  Royal.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  go  without  shoes 
if  'twas  me. 

SUSAN.  O  leave  me  alone — you  be  worse  nor  a  nest 
of  waspes — that  you  be. 

GRANDMOTHER.  [Turning  fiercely  round.]  Us'll  smoke 
them  out  of  their  holes  one  day — see  if  us  do  not. 

[They  pass  over  to  the  tree  where  the  GRAND- 
MOTHER sits  down  and  SUSAN  crouches  by 
her  side.  Presently  they  are  joined  by 
JOCKIE.  The  girls  sing  a  verse  or  two  of 
another  song,  and  during  this  LADY 
MILLICENT,  enveloped  in  a  big  cloak,  goes 
over  to  the  tree,  followed  by  ALICE,  also 
wearing  a  long  cloak  and  they  sit  down  by 
the  side  of  SUSAN. 

MARION.     [Pointing.]    Who  are  those  yonder,  Rose  ? 
ROSE.     I'm   sure  I  don't  know,  Marion — strangers, 
may  be. 

MARION.     0  my  heart  goes  wild  this  afternoon. 
ROSE.     Mine  too.     Look,  there  they  come. 

[The  Music  begins  to  play  and  old  LADY  CULLEN, 
followed  by  her  lady  companions,  conies 
slowly  towards  the  dais,  on  which  she  seats 
herself. 

LADY  CULLEN.  Dear  me,  what  a  gathering  to  be 
sure. 

HER  LADY.     Indeed  it  is  an  unusual  sight. 
LADY  CULLEN.    And  0  what  a  sad  infatuation  on  the 
part  of  my  poor  boy. 

HER  LADY.  The  war  has  been  known  to  turn  many 
a  brain. 

LADY  CULLEN.  And  yet  my  son  holds  his  own  with 
the  brightest  intelligences  of  the  day. 

HER  LADY.  Only  one  little  spot  of  his  lordship's 
brain  seems  to  be  affected. 


ACT  ii  PRINCESS    ROYAL  11 

LADY  CULLEN.  Just  so.  But  here  he  comes,  poor 
misguided  youth. 

[LORD  CULLEN  comes  slowly  over  the  green, 
looking  to  right  and  to  left.  He  mounts  the 
dais  and  sits  down  by  his  mother,  and  the 
music  plays  for  a  country  dance.  "  The 
Twenty  Ninth  of  May."  The  girls  arrange 
themselves,  and  during  the  dance  LORD 
CULLEN  scans  each  face  very  eagerly.  The 
dance  ends  and  the  girls  pass  in  single  file 
before  the  dais. 

LORD  CULLEN.  No,  no— that  was  not  the  music  of 
it,  that  was  not  the  dance — not  a  face  among  them 
resembles  the  image  I  carry  in  my  heart. 

LADY  CULLEN.  [Aside.]  Thank  goodness.  May 
that  face  never  be  seen  again. 

[A  fresh  group  come  up  and  another  dance  is 

formed  and  danced. 

LORD  CULLEN.  [At  the  end  of  it.]  Worse  and  worse. 
Could  I  have  dreamed  both  the  music  and  the  dance  and 
the  dancer  ? 

LADY  CULLEN.  [Soothingly.]  I  am  sure  this  was  the 
case,  my  dear  son. 

LORD  CULLEN.  [Rallying.]  I  heard  her  voice  sing- 
ing in  the  forest  before  ever  she  began  to  dance.  It  was 
the  sweetest  voice  and  song  I  ever  heard.  [Looking 
around.]  Can  any  of  these  maid,  sing  to  me,  I  wonder  ? 
MARION.  [Steps  forward.]  I  only  know  one  song,  my 
lord. 

[LORD  CULLEN  signs  to  her  to  sing,  and  she  stands 
before  the  dais  and  sings  a  verse  of  "Bedlam.' 
LORD  CULLEN.     [Impatiently.]    No,  no — that  is  not 
in  the  least  what  I  remember.     [Turning  to  ROSE.]     You 
try  now. 

ROSE  I  don't  sing,  my  lord— but — [Indicating  another 
girl  in  the  group]  she  has  a  sweet  voice,  and  she  knows  a 
powerful  lot  of  songs. 

[A  girl  steps  out  from  the  others  and  sings  a 
verse  of  "  The  Lark  in  the  Morn." 


12  PRINCESS   ROYAL  ACT  n 

LORD  CULLEN.  Not  that.  Mine  was  a  song  to  stir 
the  depths  of  a  man's  heart  and  bring  tears  up  from  the 
fountains  of  it. 

[He  leans  back  in  deep  dejection — and  at  this 
moment  LADY  MILLICENT  and  ALICE  come 
forward.  ' 

LORD  CTTLLEN.  [Eagerly.]  I  seem  to  know  that 
russet  skirt — those  bare,  small  feet.  [Standing  up 
quickly.]  Mother,  look  at  that  maid  with  the  red 
kerchief  on  her  head. 

LADY  CULLEN.  Some  sort  of  a  gipsy  dress,  to  all 
appearance. 

LORD  CULLEN.  [Doubtfully.]  The  skirt  she  wore  was 
torn  and  ragged — that  day  in  the  forest.  She  had  no 
gold  rings  to  her  ears,  nor  silken  scarf  upon  her  head— 
But  this  might  be  her  dress  for  holidays. 

[JocKiE  advances  and  begins  to  play  the  tune  of 

"Princess  Royal." 

LORD  CULLEN.  [Eagerly.]  That  is  the  right  music 
— 0  is  it  possible  my  quest  is  ended  ! 

[LADY  MILLICENT  and  ALICE,  standing  opposite 
one  to  another  begin  to  dance — slowly  and 
clumsily,  and  in  evident  doubt  as  to  their 
steps.  LORD  CULLEN  watches  them  for  a 
moment  and  then  claps  his  hands  angrily  as 
a  sign  for  the  music  to  stop.  The  dancers 
pause. 

LORD  CULLEN.  This  is  a  sad  mimicry  of  my  beautiful 
love.  But  there  lies  something  behind  the  masquerade 
which  I  shall  probe. 

[He  leaves  the  dais  and  goes  straight  towards 
LADY  MILLICENT,  who  turns  from  him  in 
confusion. 

LORD  CULLEN.  From  whom  did  you  take  the  manner 
and  the  colour  of  your  garments,  my  maid  ? 

[LADY  MILLICENT  remains  obstinately  silent. 
LORD  CULLEN.    [To  ALICE.]    Perhaps  you  have  a 


ACT  n  PRINCESS    ROYAL  13 

tongue  in  your  head.     From  whom  did  you  try  to  learn 
those  steps  ? 

[ALICE    turns    sulkily    away.    JOCKIE    comes 

forward. 

JOCKIE.  I'll  tell  your  lordship  all  about  it,  and  I'll 
take  your  lordship  straight  to  the  right  wench,  that  I 
will,  if  so  be  as  your  lordship  will  give  a  shilling  to  a  poor 
little  swine-herd  what  goes  empty  and  hungered  most  of 
the  year  round. 

LORD  CULLEN.  A  handful  of  gold,  my  boy,  if  you  lead 
me  rightly. 

[JOCKIE  leads  the  way  to  the  tree  where  SUSAN  is 
sitting.  She  stands  up  as  LORD  CULLEN 
approaches,  and  for  a  moment  they  gaze  at  one 
another  in  silence. 

GRANDMOTHER.  You  might  curtsey  to  the  gentleman, 
Susan. 

LORD  CULLEN.  No — there's  no  need  of  that,  from  her 
to  me.  [Turning  to  JOCKIE  and  putting  his  hand  in  his 
pocket.]  Here,  my  boy,  is  a  golden  pound  for  you — and 
more  shall  follow  later. 

[He  then  takes  SUSAN'S  hand  and  leads  her  to  the 
foot  of  the  dais. 

LORD  CULLEN.    Will  you  dance  for  me  again,  Susan  ? 

SEVERAL  or  THE  GIRLS.  [Mockingly.]  Princess  Royal 
is  her  name. 

MARION.     [Rudely.]    Or  Princess  Rags. 

SUSAN.  Tis  all  took  out  of  my  hands  now,  I  can  but 
do  as  your  lordship  says.  Jockie,  play  me  my  music,  and 
play  it  bravely  too. 

[JOCKIE  places  himself  near  her  and  begins  to 
play.  SUSAN  dances  by  herself.  At  the  end 
of  her  dance  LORD  CULLEN  leads  the 
applause,  and  even  the  ladies  on  the  dais  join 
faintly  in  it.  He  then  takes  SUSAN  by  the 
hand  and  mounts  the  dais  with  her  and 
presents  her  to  his  mother. 


14  PRINCESS    ROYAL  ACT  n 

LADY  CULLEN.  [Aside,  to  her  companion.]  I  wonder 
if  the  young  person  understands  that  my  poor  boy  is  a 
little  touched  in  the  brain  ? 

LORD  CULLEN.     Here  is  your  daughter,  mother. 

[LADY  CULLEN  and  SUSAN  look  at  one  another 
in  silence.  After  a  moment  SUSAN  turns  to 
LORD  CULLEN. 

SUSAN.  I'm  a  poor  ragged  thing  to  be  daughter  to 
the  likes  of  she.  But  the  heart  within  of  me  is  grander 
nor  that  of  any  queen,  because  of  the  love  that  it  holds 
for  you,  my  lord. 

[LORD  CULLEN  takes  her  hand  and  leads  her  to 

the  front  of  the  dais. 

LORD  CULLEN.  We  will  be  married  to-morrow,  my 
princess.  And  all  these  good  people  shall  dance  at  our 
wedding. 

MARION.     [Springing  up.]    And  we'll  do  a  bit  of 
dancing  now  as  well.     Come,  Jockie,  give  us  the  tune  of 
"  Haste  to  the  Wedding." 
ROSE.    That's  it.    Come  girls — 
LADY   MILLICENT.    [To  ALICE.]    I   pray  he  won't 
find  out  about  me. 

[The  old  GRANDMOTHER  has  come  slowly  towards 
the  middle  of  the  green. 

GRANDMOTHER.  Ah,  and  my  little  wench  will  know 
how  to  pay  back  some  of  the  vipers  tongues  which 
slandered  her,  when  she  sits  on  her  velvet  chair  as  a 
countess,  the  diamonds  a-trickling  from  her  neck  and 
the  rubies  a-crowning  of  her  head.  Her '11  not  forget 
the  snakes  what  did  he  in  the  grass.  Her'll  have  her 
heel  upon  they,  so  that  their  heads  be  put  low  and  there 
shan't  go  no  more  venom  from  then*  great  jaws  to  harm 
she,  my  pretty  lamb — my  little  turtle. 

[The  music  begins  to  play  and  all  those  on  the 
green  form  themselves  for  the  dance.  LORD 
CULLEN  and  SUSAN  stands  side  by  side  in 
front  of  the  dais,  and  the  GRANDMOTHER 


ACT  ii  PRINCESS  ROYAL  15 

lights  a  pipe  and  smokes  it  as  she  watches 
the  dance  from  below.  At  the  end  of  the 
dance  LORD  CULLEN,  leading  SUSAN,  comes 
down  from  the  dais  and,  followed  by  LADY 
CULLEN  and  her  ladies,  passes  between  two 
lines  of  girls  and  so  off  the  stage.  The  girls 
follow  in  procession,  and  lastly  the  GRAND- 
MOTHER preceded  by  JOCKIE,  beating  his 
drum. 


[Curtain.] 


THE    SEEDS    OF    LOVE 


L.  T.  5 


CHARACTERS. 

JOHN  DANIEL,  aged  30,  a  Miller. 

ROSE-ANNA          ^   . 

\  ms  sisters. 
KITTY,  aged  16    ) 

ROBERT  PEARCE,  aged  26. 

\  elderly  cousins  of  Robert. 
JANE    / 

JEREMY,  John's  servant — of  middle  age. 
MARY  MEADOWS,  aged  24,  a  Herbalist. 
LUBIN. 
ISABEL. 

The  time  is  Midsummer. 


THE   SEEDS  OF   LOVE. 
ACT  I. 

A  woodland  road  outside  MARY'S  cottage.  There  are 
rough  seats  in  the  porch  and  in  front  of  the  window. 
Bunches  of  leaves  and  herbs  hang  drying  around  door 
and  window.  MARY  is  heard  singing  within. 

MARY.     [Singing.'] 

I  sowed  the  seeds  of  Love, 
And  I  sowed  them  in  the  Spring. 
I  gathered  them  up  in  the  morning  so  soon. 
While  the  sweet  birds  so  sweetly  sing, 
While  the  sweet  birds  so  sweetly  sing.1 
[MARY  comes  out  of  the  cottage,  a  bundle  of 
enchanters   nightshade   in  her  arms.     She 
hangs  it  by  a  string  to  the  wall  and  then 
goes  indoors. 
MARY.     [Singing.] 

The  violet  I  did  not  like, 

Because  it  bloomed  so  soon  ; 

The  lily  and  the  pink  I  really  over  think, 

So  I  vowed  I  would  wait  till  June, 

So  I  vowed  I  would  wait  till  June. 

[During  the  singing  LTJBIN  comes  slowly  and 
heavily  along  the  road.  He  wears  the  dress 
of  a  farm  labourer  and  carries  a  scythe  over 
his  shoulder.  In  front  of  the  cottage  he 
pauses,  looks  round  doubtfully,  and  then  sits 
stiffly  and  wearily  down  on  the  bench 
beneath  the  window. 

1  "The  Seeds  of  Love,"    "Folk  Songs  from  Somerset,"   edited 
by  Cecil  J.  Sharp  and  Charles  L.  Marsden. 


4  THE    SEEDS    OF   LOVE  ACT  i 

MARY.     [Coming  to  the  doorway  with  more  plants  and 
singing.  \ 
"  For  the  grass  that  has  oftentimes   been  trampled 

underfoot, 
Give  it  time,  it  will  rise  up  again." 

LUBIN.  [Looking  up  gloomily.]  And  that  it  won't, 
mistress. 

MARY.  [Suddenly  perceiving  him  and  coming  out.] 
0  you  are  fair  spent  from  journeying.  Can  I  do  any- 
thing for  you,  master  ? 

LUBIN.  [Gazing  at  her  fixedly.]  You  speak  kindly 
for  a  stranger,  but  'tis  beyond  the  power  of  you  nor  any- 
one to  do  aught  for  me. 

MARY.  [Sitting  down  beside  him  and  pointing  to  the 
wall  of  the  house.]  See  those  leaves  and  flowers  drying 
in  the  sun  ?  There's  medicine  for  every  sort  of  sickness 
there,  sir. 

LUBIN.  There's  not  a  root  nor  yet  a  herb  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  that  could  cure  the  sickness  I  have  within 
me. 

MARY.  That  must  be  a  terrible  sort  of  a  sickness, 
master. 

LTJBIN.    So  'tis.    Tis  love. 

MARY.    Love  ? 

LUBIN.  Yes,  love;  wicked,  unhappy  love.  Love 
what  played  false  when  riches  fled.  Love  that  has  given 
the  heart  what  was  all  mine  to  another. 

[ISABEL  has  been  slowly  approaching,  she  wears  a 
cotton  handkerchief  over  her  head  and 
carries  a  smatt  bundle  tied  up  in  a  cloth  on 
her  arm.  Her  movements  are  languid  and 
sad. 

MARY.  I  know  of  flowers  that  can  heal  even  the  pains 
of  love. 

ISABEL.  [Coming  forward  and  speaking  earnestly.]  0 
tell  me  of  them  quickly,  mistress. 

MARY.    Why,  are  you  sick  of  the  same  complaint  ? 

ISABEL.  [Sinking  down  on  the  grass  at  MARY'S  feet.] 
So  bruised  and  wounded  in  the  heart  that  the  road  from 


ACT  i  THE   SEEDS    OF    LOVE  5 

Framilode  up  here  might  well  have  been  a  hundred  miles 
or  more. 

LUBIN.     Framilode  ?     Tis  there  you  come  from  ? 

ISABEL.  I  was  servant  at  the  inn  down  yonder. 
Close  upon  the  ferry.  Do  you  know  the  place,  master  ? 

LUBIN.  [In  deep  gloom.]  Ah,  the  place  and  the  ferry 
man  too. 

MARY.  [Leaning  forward  and  clasping  her  hands.] 
Him  as  is  there  to-day,  or  him  who  was  ? 

LUBIN.  He  who  was  there  and  left  for  foreign  parts  a 
good  three  year  ago. 

[ISABEL  covers  her  face  and  is  shaken  by  sobs. 
LUBIN  leans  his  elbow  on  his  knee,  shading 
his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

MARY.  I  have  help  for  all  torments  in  my  flowers. 
Such  things  be  given  us  for  that. 

ISABEL.  [Looking  up.]  You  be  gentle  in  your  voice, 
mistress.  'Tis  like  when  a  quist  do  sing,  as  you  speaks. 

MARY.  Then  do  both  of  you  tell  your  sorrow.  'Twill 
be  strange  if  I  do  not  find  sommat  that  will  lighten  your 
burdens  for  you. 

LUBIN.     'Twas  at  Moat  Farm  I  was  born  and  bred. 

MARY.     Close  up  to  Daniels  yonder  ? 

LUBIN.  The  same.  Rose-Anna  of  the  Mill  and  I — we 
courted  and  was  like  to  marry.  But  there  came  mis- 
fortune and  I  lost  my  all.  She  would  not  take  a  poor 
man,  so  I  left  these  parts  and  got  to  be  what  you  do  see 
me  now — just  a  day  labourer. 

ISABEL.  Mine,  'tis  the  same  tale,  very  nigh.  Robert 
the  ferry-man  and  me,  we  loved  and  was  to  have  got  us 
wedded,  only  there  came  a  powerful  rich  gentleman 
what  used  to  go  fishing  along  of  Robert.  'Twas  he  that 
'ticed  my  lover  off  to  foreign  parts. 

LUBIN.  [Wi£&  a  heavy  sigh.]  These  things  are 
almost  more  than  I  can  bear. 

ISABEL.  At  first  he  wrote  his  letters  very  often. 
Then  'twas  seldom  like.  Then  'twas  never.  And  then 
there  corned  a  day — 

[She  is  interrupted  by  her  weeping. 


6  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  ACT  i 

MARY.  Try  to  get  out  your  story — you  can  let  the 
tears  run  afterwards  if  you  have  a  mind. 

ISABEL.  There  corned  a  day  when  I  did  meet  a  fisher- 
man from  Bristol.  He  brought  me  news  of  Robert 
back  from  the  seas,  clothed  in  fine  stuff  with  money  in 
the  pockets  of  him,  horse  and  carriage,  and  just  about  to 
wed. 

LUBIN.     Did  he  name  the  maid  ? 

ISABEL.  Rose-Anna  she  was  called,  of  Daniel's  mill 
up  yonder. 

LUBIN.  Rose- Anna — She  with  whom  I  was  to  have 
gone  to  church. 

MARY.     Here  is  a  tangle  worse  nor  any  briar  rose. 

ISABEL.  0  'twas  such  beautiful  times  as  we  did  have 
down  by  the  riverside,  him  and  me. 

LUBIN.  She  would  sit,  her  hand  in  mine  by  the  hour 
of  a  Sunday  afternoon. 

[A  pause  during  which  LUBIN  and  ISABEL  seem 
lost  in  their  own  sad  memories.  MARY  gets 
up  softly  and  goes  within  the  cottage. 

ISABEL.  And  when  I  heared  as  'twas  to-morrow  they 
were  to  wed,  though  'twas  like  driving  a  knife  deeper 
within  the  heart  of  me,  I  up  and  got  me  upon  the  road 
and  did  travel  along  by  starlight  and  dawn  and  day  just 
for  one  look  upon  his  face  again. 

LUBIN.  'Twas  so  with  me.  From  beyond  Oxford 
town  I  am  come  to  hurt  myself  worse  than  ever,  by  one 
sight  of  the  eyes  that  have  looked  so  cruel  false  into  mine. 

ISABEL.  If  I  was  to  plead  upon  my  knees  to  him 
'twould  do  no  good — poor  wench  of  a  serving  maid  like 
me. 

LUBIN.  [Looking  down  at  himself.]  She'd  spurn  me 
from  the  door  were  I  to  stand  there  knocking — in  the 
coat  I  have  upon  me  now.  No — let  her  go  her  way  and 
wed  her  fancy  man. 

[LUBIN  shades  his  eyes  with  one  hand.  ISABEL 
bows  her  head  on  her  knees  weeping.  MARY 
comes  out  of  the  house  carrying  two  glass 
bowls  of  water. 


ACT  i  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  7 

MARY.  Leave  your  sorrowful  tears  till  later,  my 
friends.  This  fresh  water  from  the  spring  will  revive 
you  from  your  travelling. 

LUBIN.  [Looking  up.]  The  heart  of  me  is  stricken 
past  all  remedy,  mistress. 

ISABEL.     I  could  well  lie  me  down  and  die. 

[MARY  giving  to  each  one  a  bowl  from  which  they 
begin  to  drink  slowly. 

MARY.  I  spoke  as  you  do,  once.  My  lover  passed  me 
by  for  another.  A  man  may  give  all  his  love  to  the  gilly 
flower,  but  'tis  the  scarlet  rose  as  takes  his  fancy  come 
to-morrow. 

ISABEL.  And  has  your  heart  recovered  from  its  sick- 
ness, mistress  ? 

MARY.     [Slowly.]    After  many  years. 

LTJBIN.     And  could  you  wed  you  to  another  ? 

MARY.  [Still  more  slowly.]  Give  the  grass  that  has 
been  trampled  underfoot  a  bit  of  time,  'twill  rise  again. 
There's  healing  all  around  of  us  for  every  ill,  did  we  but 
know  it. 

LUBIN.     I'd  give  sommat  to  know  where  'tis  then. 

MARY.  There  isn't  a  herb  nor  a  leaf  but  what  carries 
its  message  to  them  that  are  in  pain. 

ISABEL.  Give  me  a  bloom  that'll  put  me  to  sleep  for 
always,  mistress. 

MARY.  There's  evil  plants  as  well,  but  'tisn't  a  many. 
There's  hen  bane  which  do  kill  the  fowls  and  fishes  if 
they  eat  the  seed  of  it.  And  there's  water  hemlock 
which  lays  dumbness  upon  man. 

LUBIN.     I've  heard  them  tell  of  that,  I  have. 

MARY.  And  of  the  good  leaves  there  is  hounds  tongue. 
Wear  it  at  the  feet  of  you  against  dogs  what  be  savage. 
Herb  Benet  you  nail  upon  the  door.  No  witch  nor  evil 
thing  can  enter  to  your  house. 

LUBIN.  And  have  you  naught  that  can  deaden  the 
stab  of  love  upon  the  heart,  mistress  ? 

ISABEL.  [Speaking  in  anguish.]  Aught  that  can  turn 
our  faithless  lovers  back  again  to  we  ? 

MARY.    That  I  have.    See  these  small  packages — you 


8  THE   SEEDS    OF    LOVE  ACT  i 

that  love  Robert,  take  you  this — and  you  who  courted 
Rose-Anna,  stretch  out  your  hand. 

[She  puts  a  small  paper  packet  into  the  hands  of 
each. 

LUBIN.  [Looking  uncertainly  at  his  packet.']  What'll 
this  do  for  me,  I'd  like  to  know  ? 

MARY.  'Tis  an  unfailing  charm.  A  powder  from 
roses,  fine  as  dust,  and  another  seed  as  well.  You  put  it 
in  her  glass  of  water — and  the  love  comes  back  to  you 
afore  next  sun-rise. 

ISABEL.    And  will  it  be  the  same  with  I  ? 

MARY.  You  have  the  Herb  of  Robert  there.  Be 
careful  of  it.  To-morrow  at  this  hour,  his  heart  will  be  all 
yours  again,  and  you  shall  do  what  you  will  with  it. 

ISABEL.  O  I  can't  believe  in  this.  'Tis  too  good  to  be 
true,  and  that  it  be — A  fine  gentleman  as  Robert  be  now 
and  a  poor  little  wretch  like  me  ! 

LUBIN.  [Slowly.]  'Tis  but  a  foolish  dream  like. 
How  are  folks  like  us  to  get  mixing  and  messing  with  the 
drinks  of  they  ?  Time  was  when  I  did  sit  and  eat  along 
of  them  at  the  table,  the  same  as  one  of  theirselves. 
But  now  !  Why,  they'd  take  and  hound  me  away  from 
the  door. 

ISABEL.     And  me  too. 

MARY.     [Breaking  off  a  spray  of  the  enchanters  night- 
shade from  the  bunch  drying.]    That'll  bring  luck,  may  be. 
[ISABEL  takes  it  and  puts  it  in  her  dress  and 
then  wraps  the  packet  in  her  bundle.     LUBIN 
puts  his  packet  away  also.     Whilst  they  are 
doing  this,  MARY  strolls  a  little  way  on  the 
road. 

MARY.  [Returning.]  The  man  from  Daniels  be  com- 
ing along. 

LUBIN.     [Hastily.]    What,  old  Andrews  ? 

MARY.  No.  This  is  another.  Folk  do  marvel  how 
Miller  John  do  have  the  patience  to  keep  in  with  him. 

LUBIN.    How's  that  ? 

MARY.  So  slow  and  heavy  in  his  ways.  But  he  can 
drink  longer  at  the  cider  than  any  man  in  the  county 


ACT  i  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  9 

afore  it  do  fly  to  his  head,  and  that's  why  master  do  put 
up  with  him. 

[JEREMY  comes  heavily  towards  them,  a  straw 
in  his  mouth.  His  hat  is  pushed  to  the  back 
of  his  head.  His  expression  is  still  and 
impassive.  He  comes  straight  towards  MARY  , 
then  halts. 

MARY.     Come,  Jeremy,  I  reckon  'tis  not  for  rue  nor 
tea  of  marjoram  you  be  come  here  this  morning  ? 

JEREMY.     {Looking  coldly  and  critically  at  the  travellers 
and  pointing  to  them.]    Who  be  they  ? 
MARY.     Travellers  on  the  road,  seeking  a  bit  of  rest. 
[JEREMY  continues  to  look  them  all  over  in 

silence. 

MARY.     How  be  things   going  at   the  Mill  to-day, 
Jerry  ? 

JEREMY.     Powerful  bad. 

MARY.     0  I  am  grieved  to  hear  of  it.     What  has 
happened  ? 

[LUBIN    and    ISABEL   lean  forward,    listening 

eagerly. 

JEREMY.     'Tis  a  pretty  caddie,  that's  all. 
MARY.     The  mistress  isn't  took  ill  ?     or  Miss  Kitty  ? 
JEREMY.     I  almost  wish  they  was,  for  then  there 
wouldn't  be  none  of  this  here  marrying  to-morrow. 

MARY.     What  has  upset  you  against  the  wedding, 
Jerry  ? 

JEREMY.     One  pair  of  hands  baint  enough  for  such 
goings  on. 

MARY.     'Tis  three  you've  got  up  there. 
JEREMY.     There  you're  mistook.     Th'idle  wench  and 
the  lad  be  both  away — off  afore  dawn  to  the  Fair  and 
took  their  clothes  along  of  they.     I  be  left  with  all  upon 
me  like,  and  'tis  too  much. 

MARY.     What  shall  you  do,  Jerry  ? 
JEREMY.     I'll  be  blowed  if  I'm  agoin'  to  do  anything. 
There. 

MARY.     But  you'll  have  to  stir  yourself  up  and  deck 
the  house  and  set  the  table  and  wait  upon  the  visitors 


10  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  ACT  i 

and  look  to  the  traps  and  horses  and  all,  Jerry — seeing 
as  you're  the  only  one. 

JEREMY.  I'll  not.  I'm  not  one  as  steps  beyond  my 
own  work,  and  master  do  know  it  too. 

MARY.    Then  how  are  they  going  to  manage  ? 

JEREMY.  I'm  out  to  find  them  as'll  manage  for  them. 
[Turning  sharply  to  LUBIN.]  Be  you  in  search  of  work, 
young  man  ? 

LUBIN.     I — I  count  as  I've  nothing  particular  in  view. 

JEREMY.     [Turning  to  ISABEL.]    And  you,  wench  ? 

ISABEL.  [Faintly.]  I've  gone  from  the  place  where  I 
was  servant. 

JEREMY.  Then  you'll  come  along  of  me — the  both  of 
you. 

ISABEL.  [Shrinking.]  O  no — I  couldn't  go  among — 
among  strangers. 

JEREMY.  I  never  takes  no  count  of  a  female's  vapours. 
You'll  come  along  of  me.  You'll  curl  the  mistress's  hair 
and  lace  her  gown  and  keep  her  tongue  quiet — and  you 
[turning  to  LUBIN]  my  man,  will  set  the  tables  and  wait 
upon  the  quality  what  we  expect  from  Bristol  town  this 
dinner-time. 

LUBIN.  [Angrily.]  I  never  waited  on  man  nor 
woman  in  my  life,  and  I'll  not  start  now. 

JEREMY.  You  will.  I'm  not  agoin'  a  half  mile 
further  this  warm  morning.  Back  to  the  Mill  you  goes 
along  of  me,  the  two  of  you. 

MARY.  [Looking  fixedly  at  ISABEL.]  This  is  a  chance 
for  you,  my  dear.  You'll  not  find  a  better. 

JEREMY.  Better  ?  I  count  as  you'll  not  better 
this'n.  Good  money  for  your  pains — victuals  to  stuff 
you  proper,  and  cider,  all  you  can  drink  on  a  summer's 
day.  I  count  you'll  not  better  that. 

LUBIN.     [As  though  to  himself.]     I  could  not  go. 

JEREMY.     Some  cattle  want  a  lot  of  driving. 

ISABEL.  [Timidly  to  LUBIN.]  If  I  go,  could  not  you 
try  and  come  along  with  me,  master  ? 

LUBIN.  You'll  never  have  the  heart  to  go  through 
with  it. 


ACT  i  THE    SEEDS    OF   LOVE  U 

JEREMY.     'Tis  a  fine  fat  heart  as  her  has  within  of  she. 
Don't  you  go  and  put  fancies  into  the  head  of  her. 

ISABEL.     [To  LUBIN.]    I'll  go  if  so  be  as  you'll  come 
along  of  me  too. 

[LUBIN  b  ends  his  head  and  remains  thinking 

deeply. 

JEREMY.     'Tis  thirsty  work  this  hiring  of  men  and 
wenches — I'll  get  me  a  drop  of  cider  down  at  the  Red 
Bull.     Mayhap  you'll  be  ready  time  I've  finished. 
MARY.     I'll  see  that  you're  not  kept  waiting,  Jeremy. 
JEREMY.     [Turning  back  after  he  has  started.]    What  be 
they  called,  Mary  ? 

[MARY    looks   doubtfully   towards   LUBIN   and 

ISABEL. 

ISABEL.    My  name — they  calls  me  Isabel. 
JEREMY.     [Turning  to  LUBIN.]    And  yourn  ? 
LUBIN.     [In  confusion.]    I  don't  rightly  recollect. 
JEREMY.     [Impassively.]    'Tis  of  no  account,  us'll  call 
you  William  like  the  last  one. 

ISABEL.     0,  and  couldn't  I  be  called  like  the  last  one 
too  ? 

JEREMY.     Then  us'll  call  you  Lucy.     And  a  rare  bad 
slut  her  was,  and  doubtless  you'll  not  prove  much  worser. 

[He  goes  away. 

MARY.     This  is  your  chance.     A  good  chance  too — 

LUBIN.    They'll  know  the  both  of  us.     Love  isn't 

never  quite  so  dead  but  what  a  sound  in  the  speech  or  a 

movement  of   the  hand  will  bring  some  breath  to  it 

again. 

ISABEL.  You're  right  there,  master — sommat'll  stir  in 
the  hearts  of  them  when  they  sees  we — and  'tis  from  the 
door  as  us'll  be  chased  for  masking  on  them  like  this. 
MARY.  But  not  before  the  seeds  of  love  have  done 
their  work.  Come,  Isabel ;  come,  Lubin — I  will  so  dress 
you  that  you  shall  not  be  recognised. 

[MARY  goes  indoors.     ISABEL  slowly  rises  and 
takes    up    her    bundle.      LUBIN     remains 
seated,  looking  gloomily  before  him. 
ISABEL.     Come,  think  what  'twill  feel  to  be  along  of 


12  THE    SEEDS    OF   LOVE  ACT  n 

our  dear  loves  and  look  upon  the  forms  of  them  and  hear 
the  notes  of  their  voices  once  again. 

LTTBIN.  That's  what  I  am  a-thinking  of.  'Twill  be 
hot  iron  drove  right  into  the  heart  all  the  while.  Ah, 
that's  about  it. 

ISABEL.     I'll  gladly  bear  the  pain. 
LUBIN.     [After  a  pause.]    Then  so  will  I.    We'll  go. 
[He  raises  his  eyes  to  her  face  and  then  gets 
heavily  up  and  follows  her  into  the  cottage. 


ACT  II.— Scene  1. 

The  living  room  at  Daniel's  Mill.    In  the  window  HOSE- 
ANNA  is  seated  awkwardly  sewing  some  bright  ribbons 
on   to   a   muslin   gown.    KITTY   is   moving   about 
rapidly  dusting  chairs  and  ornaments  which  are  in 
disorder  about  the  room  and  JOHN  stands  with  his 
back  to  the  grate  gravely  surveying  them. 
ROSE.     [Petulantly.]    Whatever  shall  we  do,  John  ! 
Me  not  dressed,  everything  no  how,  and  them  expected 
in  less  nor  a  half  hour's  time  ? 

KITTY.  There  !  I've  finished  a-dusting  the  chairs. 
Now  I'll  set  them  in  their  places. 

ROSE.  No  one  is  thinking  of  me  !  Who's  going  to 
help  me  on  with  my  gown  and  curl  my  hair  like  Robert 
was  used  to  seeing  me  wear  it  at  Aunt's  ? 

KITTY.  Did  you  have  it  different  down  at  Bristol, 
Rose? 

ROSE.  Of  course  I  did.  'Twouldn't  do  to  be  countri- 
fied in  the  town. 

JOHN.     Your  hair's  well  enough  like  that.     'Tisn't 
of  hair  as  anyone'll  be  thinking  when  they  comes  in,  but 
of  victuals.     And  how  we're  a-going  to  get  the  table  and 
all  fixed  up  in  so  short  a  time  do  fairly  puzzle  me. 
KITTY.     I'll  do  the  table. 


ACT  ii  THE  SEEDS    OF   LOVE  13 

ROSE.    No.    You've  got  to  help  me  with  my  gown. 
0  that  was  a  good-for-nothing  baggage,  leaving  us  in 
the  lurch ! 

JOHN.     Well,  I've  done  my  best  to  get  us  out  of  the  fix. 

ROSE.     And  what  would  that  be,  pray  ? 

KITTY.  Why  John,  you've  done  nothing  but  stand 
with  your  back  to  the  grate  this  last  hour. 

JOHN.     I've  sent  off  Jerry. 

ROSE.     [Scornfully. 1    Much  good  that'll  do. 

KITTY.    We  know  just  how  far  Jerry  will  have  gone. 

JOHN.  I  told  him  not  to  shew  hisself  unless  he  could 
bring  a  couple  of  servants  back  along  with  him. 

ROSE.  [Angrily.]  You're  more  foolish  than  I  took 
you  to  be,  John.  Get  you  off  at  once  and  fetch  Jerry 
from  his  cider  at  the  Red  Bull.  He's  not  much  of  a 
hand  about  the  house,  but  he's  better  than  no  one. 

JOHN.  [Sighing  heavily.]  Jeremy's  not  the  man  to 
start  his  drinking  so  early  in  the  day. 

ROSE.     I've  caught  him  at  the  cask  soon  after  dawn. 

KITTY.  And  so  have  I,  John.  How  you  put  up  with 
his  independent  ways  I  don't  know. 

JOHN.     Ah,  'tisn't  everyone  as  has  such  a  powerful 

strong  head  as  Jerry's.     He's  one  that  can  be  trusted 

to  take  his  fill,  and  none  the  worse  with  him  afterwards. 

[A  knock  at  the  door,  which  is  pushed  open  by 

JEREMY. 

JEREMY.  [From  the  doorway.]  Well,  Master  John — 
well,  mistress  ? 

ROSE.  [Sharply.]  Master  was  just  starting  out  for 
to  fetch  you  home,  Jerry. 

JEREMY.  [Ignoring  her.]  Well,  master,  I've  brought 
a  couple  back  along  of  me. 

ROSE.    Ducklings  or  chickens  ? 

JEREMY.     I've  gotten  them  too. 

KITTY.  Do  you  mean  that  you've  found  some 
servants  for  us,  Jerry  ? 

JEREMY.     Two  outside.    Female  and  male. 

JOHN.  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  !  There's  naught  that 
Jerry  cannot  do.  You'll  have  a  drink  for  this,  my  man. 


14  THE   SEEDS    OF    LOVE  ACT  n 

ROSE.  You  may  take  my  word  he's  had  that  already, 
John. 

JEREMY.  I  have,  mistress.  Whilst  they  was  a 
packing  up  the  poultry  in  my  basket .  Down  at  the  Bull . 

ROSE.     What  sort  of  a  maid  is  it  ? 

JEREMY.  Ah,  'tis  for  you  to  tell  me  that,  mistress, 
when  you've  had  her  along  of  you  a  bit. 

ROSE.    And  the  man  ? 

JEREMY.    Much  the  same  as  any  other  male. 

ROSE.  [Impatiently.]  Do  you  step  outside,  John, 
and  have  a  look  at  them,  and  if  they're  suitable  bring 
them  in  and  we'll  set  them  about  their  work. 

[JOHN  goes  out.  KITTY  peers  through  the 
window. 

JEREMY.  I  reckon  I  can  go  off  and  feed  the  hilts 
now.  'Tis  the  time. 

ROSE.  Feed  the  hilts  !  Indeed  you  can't  do  no  such 
thing.  O  I'm  mad  with  vexation  that  nothing  is  well 
ordered  or  suitably  prepared  for  Mr.  Robert  and  his  fine 
cousins  from  Bristol  town.  Whatever  will  they  say  to 
such  a  house  when  they  do  see  it  ? 

JEREMY.     I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 

KITTY.  [From  the  window.]  I  see  the  new  servants. 
John  is  bringing  them  up  the  walk.  The  man's  face  is 
,hid  by  his  broad  hat,  but  the  girl  looks  neat  enough  in 
her  cotton  gown  and  sun-bonnet. 

[JOHN  comes  into  the  room,  followed  by  LUBIN 
and  ISABEL.  LUBIN  shuffles  off  his  hat, 
but  holds  it  between  his  face  and  the  people 
in  the  room. 

JEREMY.  [Pointing  to  them  and  speaking  to  ROSE.] 
There  you  are,  mistress — man-servant  and  maid. 

ROSE.  What  do  we  know  about  them  ?  Folk 
picked  up  by  Jerry  at  the  Red  Bull. 

JEREMY.     No,  from  the  roadside. 

ROSE.    Worser  far. 

JOHN.  No,  no,  Rose.  These  young  persons  were 
spoken  for  by  Mary  Meadows.  And  'tis  rare  fortunate 
for  we  to  obtain  their  services  at  short  notice  like  this. 


ACT  n  THE  SEEDS    OF   LOVE  15 

ROSE.     [To  ISABEL.]    What  are  you  called,  my  girl  ? 

ISABEL.  [Faintly.]  Isabel  is  my  name,  but  I'd 
sooner  you  called  me  Lucy. 

ROSE.  And  that  I  will.  My  tongue  is  used  to  Lucy. 
The  other  is  a  flighty,  fanciful  name  for  a  servant. 

KITTY.     And  what  is  the  man  called,  John  ? 

LTJBIN.     [Harshly.]    I  am  called  William. 

KITTY.  William  and  Lucy  !  Like  the  ones  that  ran 
away  this  morning. 

ROSE.  0  do  not  let  us  waste  any  more  time  !  Jerry, 
do  you  take  the  man  and  shew  him  his  work  in  the  back 
kitchen  ;  and  Lucy,  come  to  me  and  help  me  with  my 
gown  and  my  hair  dressing.  We  have  not  a  minute  to 
lose. 

KITTY.  They  may  be  upon  us  any  time  now.  I'll 
go  out  and  gather  the  flowers  for  the  parlour,  since  you 
don't  want  me  any  more  within,  Rose. 

JOHN.  And  I'll  get  and  finish  Jeremy's  work  in  the 
yard.  'Tis  upside  down  and  round  about  and  no  how 
to-day.  But  we'll  come  out  of  it  some  time  afore  next 
year  I  reckon. 

JEREMY.  Don't  you  ever  go  for  to  get  married, 
master.  There  could  never  come  a  worser  caddie  into 
a  man's  days  nor  matrimony,  I  count. 

[JOHN,  on  Ms  way  to  the  door,  pauses — as  though 
momentarily  lost  in  thought. 

JOHN.  Was  Mary  Meadows  asked  to  drop  in  at  any 
time  to-day,  Rose  ? 

ROSE.  [Who  is  taking  up  her  gown  and  ribbons  to  show 
to  ISABEL,  and  speaking  crossly.]  I'm  sure  I  don't  know, 
nor  care.  I've  enough  to  think  about  as  'tis. 

KITTY.  [Taking  JOHN'S  arm  playfully.]  You're 
terribly  took  up  with  Mary  Meadows,  John. 

JOHN.  There  isn't  many  like  her,  Kitty.  She  do 
rear  herself  above  t'others  as — as  a  good  wheat  stalk 
from  out  the  rubbish. 

[JOHN  and  KITTY  go  slowly  out. 

JEREMY.  [As  though  to  himself.]  I  sees  as  how  I 
shall  have  to  keep  an  eye  on  master — [turning  to  LUBIN 


16  THE  SEEDS   OF   LOVE  ACT  n 

and  signing  to  him.]     But  come,  my  man,  us  has  no  time 
for  romance,  'tis  dish  washing  as  lies  afore  you  now. 

[LuBiN  jerks  his  head  haughtily  and  makes  a 
protesting  gesture.  Then  he  seems  to  re- 
member himself  and  follows  JEREMY  humbly 
from  the  room.  ROSE  takes  up  some 
ribbons  and  laces. 

KOSE.  [To  ISABEL,  who  is  standing  near.]  Now, 
Lucy,  we  must  look  sharp ;  Mister  Robert  and  his 
cousins  from  Bristol  town  will  soon  be  here.  I  have  not 
met  with  the  cousins  yet,  but  I've  been  told  as  they're 
very  fine  ladies— They  stood  in  place  of  parents  to  my 
Robert,  you  know.  'Tis  unfortunate  we  should  be  in 
such  a  sad  muddle  the  day  they  come. 

ISABEL.  When  I  have  helped  you  into  your  gown, 
mistress,  I  shall  soon  have  the  dinner  spread  and  all  in 
order.  I  be  used  to  such  work,  and  I'm  considered  spry 
upon  my  feet. 

ROSE.  'Tis  more  serious  that  you  should  be  able  to 
curl  my  hair  in  the  way  that  Mr.  Robert  likes. 

ISABEL.  [Sadly.]  I  don't  doubt  but  that  I  shall  be 
able  to  do  that  too,  mistress. 

ROSE.  Very  well.  Take  the  gown  and  come  with 
me  up  to  my  room. 

[They  go  out  together,  ISABEL  carrying  the  gown. 


ACT  II.— Scene  2. 

The  same  room.  The  table  is  laid  for  dinner  and  ISABEL 
is  putting  flowers  upon  it.  LUBIN  wearing  his  hat, 
enters  with  large  jugs  of  cider,  which  he  sets  upon  a 
side  table. 

ISABEL.     [Looking  up  from  her  work.]    Shall  us  ever 
have  the  heart  to  go  on  with  it,  Master  Lubin  ? 

LUBIN.     [Bitterly.]    Do    not    you     "  Master "    me, 


ACT  H  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  17 

Isabel.     I'm  only  a  common  servant  in  the  house  where 
once  I  was  lover  and  almost  brother. 

ISABEL.  [Coming  up  to  him.]  0  do  not  take  it  so 
hard,  Lubin — Us  can  do  naught  at  this  pass  but  trust 
what  the  young  woman  did  tell  me. 

LUBIN.  [Gloomily.]  The  sight  of  Rose  has  stirred 
up  my  love  so  powerful  that  I  do  hardly  know  how  to 
hold  the  tears  back  from  my  eyes. 

ISABEL.  [Pressing  her  eyes  with  her  apron.]  What'll 
it  be  for  me  when  Robert  comes  in  ? 

LUBIN.  We'll  have  to  help  one  another,  Isabel,  in 
the  plight  where  we  stand. 

ISABEL.  That's  it.  And  perchance  as  them  seeds'll 
do  the  rest. 

[They  spring  apart  as  a  sound  of  voices  and 

laughter  is  heard  outside. 

KITTY.  [Runs  in.]  They've  come.  All  of  them. 
And  do  you  know  that  Robert's  cousins  are  no  fine  ladies 
at  all,  as  he  said,  but  just  two  common  old  women 
dressed  grand -like. 

ISABEL.    That  will  be  a  sad  shock  to  poor  mistress. 
KITTY.     0,  she  is  too  much  taken  up  with  Mister 
Robert  to  notice  yet.     But  quick  !     They  are  all  sharp 
set  from  the  drive.     Fetch  in  the  dishes,  William  and 
Lucy. 

ISABEL.  All  shall  be  ready  in  a  moment,  Miss  Kitty. 
[She  goes  hurriedly  out  followed  by  LUBIN. 
KITTY  glances  round  the  room  and  then 
stands  at  the  side  of  the  front  door.  JOHN, 
giving  an  arm  to  each  of  ROBERT'S  cousins, 
enters.  The  cousins  are  dressed  in  coloured 
flowered  dresses,  and  wear  bonnets  that  are 
heavy  with  bright  plumes.  They  look 
cumbered  and  ill  at  ease  in  their  clothes, 
and  carry  their  sunshades  and  gloves 
awkwardly. 

Liz.  [Looking  round  her.]  Very  comfortable,  I'm 
sure.  But  I  count  as  that  there  old-fashioned  grate  do 
take  a  rare  bit  of  elbow  grease. 


18  THE   SEEDS   OF   LOVE  ACT  n 

JANE.  Very  pleasant  indeed.  But  I  didn't  reckon 
as  the  room  would  be  quite  the  shape  as  'tis. 

Liz.  Come  to  that,  I  didn't  expect  the  house  to  look 
as  it  do. 

JANE.     Very  ancient  in  appearance,  I'm  sure. 

JOHN.  Ah,  the  house  has  done  well  enough  for  me  and 
my  father  and  grandfather  afore  me. 

[ROSE,  very  grandly  dressed,  comes  in  hanging 
on  ROBERT'S  arm.  ROBERT  is  clothed  in 
the  fashion  of  the  town. 

ROSE.  Please  to  remove  your  bonnet,  Miss  Eliza. 
Please  to  remove  yours,  Miss  Jane. 

JOHN.  {Heartily.']  Ah,  that's  so — 'Twill  be  more 
homely  like  for  eating. 

ROSE.     There's  a  glass  upon  the  wall. 

Liz.     I  prefer  to  remain  as  I  be. 

JANE.  Sister  and  me  have  our  caps  packed  up  in  the 
tin  box. 

KITTY.  [Bringing  the  tin  box  from  the  doorway.] 
Shall  I  take  you  upstairs  to  change  ?  Dinner's  not  quite 
ready  yet. 

Liz.     That  will  suit  us  best,  I'm  sure.     Come,  sister. 
[KiTTY  leads  the  way  out,  followed  by  both  sisters. 

JOHN.  I'll  just  step  outside  and  see  that  Jerry's 
tending  to  the  horse. 

[He  hurries  out,  and  ROBERT  is  left  alone  with 
ROSE. 

ROSE.  [Coming  towards  him  and  holding  out  her 
hands.]  0,  Robert,  is  it  the  same  between  us  as  it  was 
last  time  ? 

ROBERT.  [Looking  at  her  critically.]  You've  got 
your  hair  different  or  something. 

ROSE.  [Putting  her  hand  to  her  head.]  The  new 
maid.  A  stupid  country  wench. 

ROBERT.  You've  got  my  meaning  wrong.  'Tis  that 
I've  never  seen  you  look  so  well  before. 

ROSE.     0  dear  Robert ! 

ROBERT.  You've  got  my  fancy  more  than  ever, 
Rose. 


ACT  n  THE    SEEDS    OF   LOVE  19 

ROSE.  0,  I'm  so  happy  to  be  going  off  with  you  to- 
morrow, and  I  love  it  down  at  Bristol.  Robert,  I'm 
tired  and  sick  of  country  life. 

ROBERT.  We'll  make  a  grand  fine  lady  of  you  there, 
Rose. 

ROSE.  [A  little  sharply.]  Am  I  not  one  in  looks 
already,  Robert  ? 

ROBERT.  You're  what  I  do  dote  upon.  I  can't  say 
no  more. 

[LFBIN  and  ISABEL  enter  carrying  dishes,  which 

they  set  upon  the  table.    ROBERT  and  ROSE 

turn  their  backs  to  them  and  look  out  into 

the  garden.     The  staircase  door  is  opened, 

and  Liz,  JANE  and  KITTY  come  into  the 

room.    Liz  and  JANE  are  wearing  gaudy 

caps  trimmed  with  violet  and  green  ribbons. 

ROSE.     We'll  sit  down,  now.    John  won't  be  a  moment 

before  he's  here. 

[She  sits  down  at  one  end  of  the  table  and  signs 
to  ROBERT  to  place  himself  next  to  her.  The 
sisters  and  KITTY  seat  themselves.  JOHN 
comes  hurriedly  in. 

JOHN.  That's  right.  Everyone  in  their  places  ? 
But  no  cover  laid  for  Mary  ? 

ROSE.  [Carelessly.']  We  can  soon  have  one  put, 
should  she  take  it  into  her  head  to  drop  in. 

JOHN.    That's    it.    Now    ladies,    now    Robert — 'tis 
thirsty  work  a-driving  upon  the  Bristol  road  at  mid- 
summer.    We'll  lead  off  with  a  drink  of  home-made 
cider.     The  eating'll  come  sweeter  afterwards. 
ROBERT.    That's  it,  Miller. 

[LUBIN  and  ISABEL  come  forward  and  take  the 
cider  mugs  from  each  place  to  the  side  table, 
where  LUBIN  fills  them  from  a  large  jug. 
In  the  mugs  of  ROSE-ANNA  and  ROBERT, 
ISABEL  shakes  the  contents  of  the  little 
packets.  Whilst  they  are  doing  this  the 
following  talk  is  carried  on  at  the  table. 
Liz  [Taking  up  a  spoon.]  Real  plated,  sister. 


20  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  ACT  n 

JANE.     Upon  my  word,  so  'tis. 

ROSE.     And  not  so  bright  as  I  should  wish  to  see  it 
neither.     I've  had  a  sad  trouble  with  my  maids  of  late. 
Liz.     Sister  and  I  don't  keep  none  of  them,  thank 
goodness. 

JANE.  We  does  our  work  with  our  own  hands.  We'd 
be  ashamed  if  'twas  otherwise. 

ROBERT.  [Scowling  at  them.]  I've  been  and  engaged 
a  house-full  of  servants  for  Rose-Anna.  She  shall  know 
what  'tis  to  live  like  a  lady  once  she  enters  our  family. 

JOHN.  Servants  be  like  green  fly  on  the  bush.  They 
do  but  spoil  th'  home  and  everything  they  do  touch. 
All  save  one. 

KITTY.     And  that  one's  Jerry,  I  suppose. 
JOHN.    You're  right  there,  Kitty,  that  you  are.     A 
harder  head  was  never  given  to  man  than  what  Jerry  do 
carry  twixt  his  shoulders. 

[LTTBIN  and  ISABEL  here  put  round  the  mugs  of 
cider,  and  everyone  drinks  thirstily.  ISABEL 
stands  behind  the  chairs  of  ROSE  and  ROBERT 
and  LTJBIN  at  JOHN'S  side. 

ROBERT.  [Setting  down  his  mug.]  There's  a  drink 
what  can't  be  got  in  foreign  parts. 

ROSE.  [Looking  fondly  at  him.]  Let  the  maid  fill 
your  mug  again,  my  dear  one. 

ROBERT.  [Carelessly  handing  it  to  ISABEL.]  I  don't 
mind  if  I  do  have  another  swill. 

[ISABEL  fills  the  mug  and  puts  it  by  his  side. 
Liz.     As  good  as  any  I  ever  tasted. 
JANE.    Couldn't  better  it  at  the  King's  Head  up  our 
way. 

JOHN.  Good  drink — plenty  of  it.  Now  we'll  start 
upon  the  meat  I  reckon. 

[He  takes  up  a  knife  and  fork  and  begins  to  carve, 
and  LTJBIN  hands  round  plates.  During 
this  ROBERT'S  gaze  restlessly  wanders  about 
the  room,  finally  fixing  itself  on  ISABEL, 
who  presently  goes  out  to  the  back  kitchen 
with  plates. 


ACT  n  THE  SEEDS   OF   LOVE  21 

ROBERT.  The  new  serving  maid  you've  got  there, 
Rose,  should  wear  a  cap  and  not  her  bonnet. 

ROSE.     How  sharp  you  are  to  notice  anything. 

ROBERT.  A  very  pretty  looking  wench,  from  what  I 
can  see. 

ROSE.     [Speaking  more  to  the  cousins  than  to  ROBERT.] 

0  she's  but  a  rough  and  untrained  girl  got  in  all  of  a 
hurry.     Not  at  all  the  sort  I've  been  used  to  in  this  house, 

1  can  tell  you. 

[ISABEL  comes  back  with  fresh  plates  and  stands 
at  the  side  table. 

Liz.  [To  JANE.]  A  mellower  piece  of  pig  meat  I 
never  did  taste,  sister. 

JANE.     I'm  sorry  I  went  and  took  the  poultry. 

KITTY.  John  will  carve  you  some  ham  if  you'd  like 
to  try  it,  Miss  Jane. 

JANE.     I'm  sure  I'm  much  obliged. 
[JEREMY  comes  in.] 

JEREMY.  [Coming  to  the  back  of  JANE'S  chair.]  Don't 
you  get  mixing  of  your  meats  is  what  I  says.  Commence 
with  ham  and  finish  with  he.  That's  what  do  suit  the 
inside  of  a  delicate  female. 

JANE.  [Looking  up  admiringly.]  Now  that's  just 
what  old  Uncle  he  did  used  to  say. 

JEREMY.  Old  uncle  did  know  what  he  was  a-talking 
about  then. 

Liz.  [Warming  and  looking  less  awkward  and  ill  at 
ease.]  'Twas  the  gout  what  kept  Uncle  so  low  in  his 
eating,  'twas  not  th'  inclination  of  him. 

JEREMY.  Ah  'twouldn't  be  the  gout  nor  any  other 
disease  as  would  keep  me  from  a  platter  of  good 
food. 

JOHN.     Nor  from  your  mug  of  drink  neither,  Jerry. 
[JEREMY  laughs  and  moves  off  to  the  side  table. 

Liz.     A  very  pleasant  sort  of  man. 

JANE.     I  do  like  anyone  what's  homely. 

JOHN.  [Calling  out  heartily.]  Do  you  listen  to  that, 
Jerry  !  The  ladies  here  do  find  you  pleasant  and  homely, 
and  I  don't  know  what  else. 


22  THE  SEEDS   OF   LOVE  ACT  n 

JEREMY.    The  mugs  want  filling  once  more. 

[He  stolidly  goes  round  the  table  refilling  the  mugs. 
ROSE'S  gaze  wanders  about  her. 

ROSE.  [To  ROBERT.]  That's  not  a  bad  looking 
figure  of  a  man — 

ROBERT.    Who  ? 

ROSE.    Well — the  new  farm  hand. 

ROBERT.  A  sulky  looking  brute.  I'd  not  let  him 
wear  his  hat  to  table  if  I  was  master  here. 

ROSE.  He  puts  me  in  mind  of — well — there,  I  can't 
recollect  who  'tis.  [A  knock  is  heard  at  the  door. 

ROSE.  [Sharply  to  ISABEL.]  Go  and  see  who  'tis, 
Lucy. 

[ISABEL  opens  the  door,  and  MARY  MEADOWS 
stands  on  the  threshold,  a  large  nosegay  of 
beautiful  wild  flowers  in  her  hand. 

JOHN.  [Rising  up  in  great  pleasure.]  You're  late, 
Mary.  But  you're  welcome  as  the — as  the  very  sun- 
shine. 

ROSE.    Set  another  place,  Lucy. 

MARY.  Not  for  me,  Rose.  I  did  not  come  here  to  eat 
or  drink,  but  to  bring  you  these  few  blossoms  and  my  love. 

ROSE.  [Rises  from  the  table  and  takes  the  nosegay. 
I'm  sure  you're  very  kind,  Mary — Suppose  we  were  all 
to  move  into  the  parlour  now  we  have  finished  dinner, 
and  then  we  could  enjoy  a  bit  of  conversation. 

Liz.     Very  pleasant,  I'm  sure. 

JANE.    I  see  no  objection. 

KITTY.  [Running  round  to  look  at  the  flowers.]  And 
Mary  shall  tell  us  how  to  make  charms  out  of  the  flowers 
— and  the  meanings  of  the  blossoms  and  all  the  strange 
things  she  knows  about  them. 

JOHN.  [Taking  a  flower  from  the  bunch  and  putting  it 
into  his  coat.]  Yes,  and  how  to  brew  tea  as  11  curl  up 
anyone's  tongue  within  the  mouth  for  a  year — and 
fancy  drinks  for  sheep  with  foot  rot,  and  powders  against 
the  murrain  and  any  other  nonsense  that  you  do  please. 

MARY.  Now,  John,  I'll  not  have  you  damage  my 
business  like  this. 


ACT  in  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  23 

Liz.  Maybe  as  the  young  person's  got  sommat  what'll 
be  handy  with  your  complaint,  sister. 

JANE.  Or  for  when  you  be  took  with  th'air  in  your 
head  so  bad,  Jane. 

ROSE.  Yes,  I  reckon  that  Mary  has  a  charm  for  every 
ill  beneath  the  sun.  Let's  go  off  to  the  parlour  along  of 
her.  You're  not  coming  with  us,  John,  are  you  ? 

JOHN.     I'd  not  miss  the  telling  of  these  things  for 
anything  in  the  world,  foolishness  though  they  be. 
ROSE.     Come  along  then — all  of  you. 

[They  all  go  out.  JEREMY  holds  the  door  open 
for  them.  As  she  passes  through  it  Liz 
says,  looking  at  him-. 

Liz.     We  shall  hope  for  your  company,  too. 
JANE.     To  be  sure,  mister. 

JEREMY.  [Haughtily.]  I  bain't  one  for  parlours, 
nor  charms,  ma'am.  I  be  here  for  another  purpose. 

[They  leave  the  room. 

JEREMY.  [Having  watched  the  party  out,  moves 
towards  the  cider  jug.]  Now,  my  man,  now,  my  wench — 
us'll  see  what  can  be  done  with  the  victuals  and  drink 
they've  been  and  left.  'Tis  a  fair  heavy  feed  and  drink 
as  I  do  need.  Sommat  as'll  lift  me  up  through  all  the 
trials  of  this  here  foolish  matrimony  and  stuff. 

[He  raises  the  jug  of  cider  to  his  mouth  as  the 
Curtain  falls. 


ACT  III.— Scene  1. 

The  next  morning.     ROBERT'S  cousins  are  standing  by 
the  fire-place  of  the  same  room. 

Liz.     'Tis  powerful  unhomely  here,  Jane. 

JANE.  And  that  'tis.  I  wish  as  Robert  had  never 
brought  us  along  of  him. 

Liz.  She's  a  stuck-up  jay  of  a  thing  what  he's  about 
to  wed  if  ever  I  seed  one. 


24  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  ACT  m 

JANE.    That  her  be.     He'll  live  to  wish  hisself  dead 
and  buried  one  day. 

Liz.    There  bain't  but  one  sensible  tongue  in  the 
whole  place  to  my  mind. 

JANE.    Ah,  he's  a  man  to  anyone's  liking,  sister. 

Liz.     'Tis  homelike  as  he  do  make  I  to  feel  among  all 
these  strangers. 

JANE.     Here  he  cornea. 

[JEREMY  with  a  yoke  and  two  pails  stands  at 
the  doorway. 

Liz.    Now  do  you  come  in,  mister,  and  have  a  bit  of 
talk  along  of  we. 

JANE.    Set  down  them  pails  and  do  as  sister  says, 
Mister  Jeremy. 

[JEREMY  looks  them  all  over  and  then  slowly  and 
deliberately  sets  down  his  pails. 

Liz.     That's  right,  sister  and  me  was  feeling  terribly 
lonesome  here  this  morning. 

JANE.    And  we  was  wishing  as  we'd  never  left  home 
to  come  among  all  these  stranger  folk. 

Liz.     Not  that  we  feels  you  to  be  a  stranger,  dear 
Mister  Jeremy. 

JANE.    You  be  a  plain  homely  man  such  as  me  and 
sister  be  accustomed  to. 

JEREMY.    Anything  more  ? 

Liz.     I  suppose  you've  put  by  a  tidy  bit — seeing  as 
you  be  of  a  certain  age. 

JANE.    Although  your  looks  favour  you  well,  don't 
they,  sister  ? 

Liz.    To  be  sure  they  do. 

JANE.    And  I  reckon  as  you  could  set  up  a  home  of 
your  own  any  day,  mister. 

JEREMY.     [Pointing  through  the  window.]    See  that 
there  roof  against  the  mill  ? 

Liz.     Indeed  I  do. 

JEREMY.    That's  where  I  do  live. 

[Both  sisters  move  quickly  to  the  window. 

JANE.    A  very  comfortable  looking  home  indeed. 

Liz.  I  likes  thelooks  of  itbetternor  this  great  oldhouse. 


ACT  ni  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  25 

JANE.  [Archly.]  Now  I  daresay  there's  but  one 
thing  wanted  over  there,  Mister  Jeremy. 

JEREMY.    What's  that  ? 

JANE.     A  good  wife  to  do  and  manage  for  you. 

JEREMY.  I  never  was  done  for  nor  managed  by  a 
female  yet,  and  blowed  if  I  will  be  now. 

Liz.  [Shaking  her  finger  at  him.]  Sister  an'  me  knows 
what  comes  of  such  words,  don't  us,  sister  ?  Tis  an 
old  saying  in  our  family  as  one  wedding  do  make  a  many. 

JEREMY.  Give  me  a  woman's  tongue  for  foolishness. 
I've  heared  a  saying  too  in  my  family,  which  be — get  a 
female  on  to  your  hearth  and  'tis  Bedlam  straight  away. 

JANE.     Now,  sister,  did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of  that  ? 

Liz.     Us'll  have  to  change  his  mind  for  him,  Jane. 

JEREMY.  I  reckon  'twould  take  a  rare  lot  of  doing  to 
change  that,  mistress. 

JANE.  Bain't  you  a-goin'  to  get  yourself  ready  for 
church  soon  ? 

JEREMY.  Dashed  if  I  ever  heard  tell  of  such  foolish- 
ness. Who's  to  mind  the  place  with  all  the  folk  gone 
fiddle-faddling  out? 

Liz.    There's  the  man  William. 

JEREMY.  I  bain't  a-goin'  to  leave  the  place  to  a 
stranger. 

JANE.  Why,  sister,  us'll  feel  lost  and  lonesome 
without  mister,  shan't  us,  Liz  ? 

Liz.  That  us  will.  What  if  us  stayed  at  home  and 
helped  to  mind  the  house  along  of  he  ? 

JANE.  [Slowly.]  And  did  not  put  our  new  gowns 
upon  the  backs  of  we  after  all  the  money  spent  ? 

JEREMY.  Ah,  there  you  be.  'Tis  the  same  with  all 
females.  Creatures  of  vanity — even  if  they  be  got  a 
bit  long  in  the  tooth.  'Tis  all  the  same. 

[JANE  and  Liz  draw   themselves   up,  bridling, 
but  Liz  relaxes. 

Liz.  He  must  have  his  little  joke,  sister,  man-like, 
you  know. 

[JOHN  enters.] 

JOHN.    Jerry,  and  I've  been  seeking  you  everywhere. 


26  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  ACT  m 

Come  you  off  to  the  yard.  'Tis  as  much  as  we  shall  do 
to  be  ready  afore  church  time.  I  never  knew  you  to 
idle  in  the  house  afore. 

JEREMY.     [Taking  up  his  pails,  sarcastically.]    'Twas 

the  females  as  tempted  I,  master,  but  'twon't  occur 

again,  so  there.  [He  hurries  off,  followed  by  JOHN. 

Liz.    [  With  dignity.]    Us'll  go  upstairs  and  dress,  sister. 

JANE.     'Tis  time  we  did  so.     All  them  new-fashioned 

things  be  awkward  in  the  fastenings. 

[They  go  upstairs. 

[ROBERT  and  ROSE  come  in  from  the  garden. 
ROBERT  carries  a  little  card-board  box  in 
his  hand,  which  he  places  on  the  table. 
ROSE  sits  down  listlessly  on  a  chair  leaning 
her  arms  on  the  table. 

ROBERT.  [Undoing  the  box.]  This  is  the  bouquet 
what  I  promised  to  bring  from  town. 

ROSE.  [Her  gaze  wandering  outside.]  Well,  we  might 
as  well  look  at  it  afore  I  go  to  dress. 

[ROBERT  uncovers  the  box  and  takes  out  a  small 
bouquet  of  white  flowers  surrounded  by  a 
lace  frill. 

ROSE.  [Taking  it  from  him  carelessly  and  raising  it 
to  her  face.]  Why,  they  are  false  ones. 

ROBERT.  [Contemptuously.]  My  good  girl,  who  ever 
went  to  church  with  orange  blossom  that  was  real,  I'd 
like  to  know  ? 

ROSE.  [Languidly  dropping  the  bouquet  on  the  table.] 
I'm  sure  I  don't  care.  I  reckon  that  one  thing's  about 
as  good  as  another  to  be  married  with. 

ROBERT.  [Going  to  the  window  and  looking  out.]  Ah 
— I  daresay  'tis  so. 

ROSE.  I  feel  tired  of  my  wedding  day  already — that 
I  do. 

ROBERT.  There's  a  plaguey,  fanciful  kind  of  feel 
about  the  day,  what  a  man's  hardly  used  to,  so  it  seems 
to  me. 

ROSE.  [Wildly.]  0,  I  reckon  we  may  get  used  to  it 
in  time  afore  we  die. 


ACT  m  THE    SEEDS    OF   LOVE  27 

ROBERT.    Now — if  'twas  with  the  right 

ROSE.     Right  what,  Robert  ? 

ROBERT.  [Confused.]  I  hardly  know  what  I  was 
a-going  to  say,  Rose.  Suppose  you  was  to  take  up 
your  flowers  and  go  to  dress  yourself.  We  might  as 
well  get  it  all  over  and  finished  with. 

ROSE.  [Rising  slowly.]  Perhaps  'twould  be  best. 
I'll  go  to  my  room,  and  you  might  call  the  girl  Lucy  and 
send  her  up  to  help  me  with  my  things. 

ROBERT.     Won't  you  take  the  bouquet  along  of  you  ? 

ROSE.     No — let  it  bide  there.     I  can  have  it  later. 

[She  goes  slowly  from  the  room. 
[Left  to  himself,  ROBERT  strolls  to  the  open  door 
and    looks    gloomily    out    on    the    garden. 
Suddenly  his  face  brightens. 

ROBERT.     Lucy,  Lucy,  come  you  in  here  a  moment. 

LUCY.  [From  outside.]  I  be  busy  just  now  hanging 
out  my  cloths,  master. 

ROBERT.  Leave  your  dish  cloths  to  dry  themselves. 
Your  mistress  wants  you,  Lucy. 

LUCY.  [Coming  to  the  door.]  Mistress  wants  me, 
did  you  say  ? 

ROBERT.  Yes,  you've  got  to  go  and  dress  her  for 
the  church.  But  you  can  spare  me  a  minute  or  two 
first. 

ISABEL.  [Going  quickly  across  the  room  to  the  staircase 
door.]  Indeed,  that  is  what  I  cannot  do,  master.  Tis 
late  already. 

ROBERT.  [Catches  her  hand  and  putts  her  back.]  I've 
never  had  a  good  look  at  your  face  yet,  my  girl — you 
act  uncommon  coy,  and  that  you  do. 

ISABEL.  [Turning  her  head  away  and  speaking 
angrily.]  Let  go  of  my  hand,  I  tell  you.  I  don't  want 
no  nonsense  of  that  sort. 

ROBERT.  Lucy,  your  voice  do  stir  me  in  a  very  un- 
common fashion,  and  there's  sommat  about  the  appear- 
ance of  you — 

ISABEL.  Let  go  of  me,  master.  Suppose  as  anyone 
should  look  through  the  window. 


28  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  ACT  ra 

ROBERT.  Let  them  look.  I'd  give  a  good  bit  for 
all  the  world  to  see  us  now. 

ISABEL.  0,  whatever  do  you  mean  by  that,  Mister 
Robert  ? 

ROBERT.  What  I  say.  'Tis  with  you  as  I'd  be  going 
along  to  church  this  morning.  Not  her  what's  above. 

ISABEL.  But  I  wouldn't  go  with  you — No,  not  for  all 
the  gold  in  the  world. 

ROBERT.  Ah,  you've  changed  since  yesterday.  When 
I  caught  your  eye  at  dinner,  'twas  gentle  as  a  dove's — 
and  your  hand,  when  it  gave  me  my  mug  of  cider  did 
seem — well  did  seem  to  put  a  caress  upon  me  like. 

ISABEL.  O  there  lies  a  world  of  time  twixt  yesterday 
and  to-day,  Master  Robert. 

ROBERT.  So  it  do  seem.  For  to-day  'tis  all  thorns 
and  thistles  with  you — But  I'm  a-goin'  to  have  my  look 
at  your  pretty  face  and  my  kiss  of  it  too. 

ISABEL.  I  shall  scream  out  loud  if  you  touches  me — 
that  I  shall. 

ROBERT.     [Pulling  her  to  him.]    Us'll  see  about  that. 

[He  tries  to  get  a  sight  of  her  face,  but  she  twists 

and    turns.    Finally    he    seizes    both    her 

hands  and  covers  them  with  kisses  as  KITTY 

enters. 

KITTY.  0  whatever's  going  on  !  Rose,  Rose,  John- 
come  you  in  here  quickly,  do.  [To  LUCY.]  O  you  bad, 
wicked  girl.  I  knew  you  couldn't  be  a  very  nice  servant 
brought  in  off  the  road  by  Jeremy. 

[ISABEL,  released  by  ROBERT,  goes  over  to  the 
window  arranging  her  disordered  sun- 
bonnet  and  trying  to  hide  her  tears.  ROBERT 
watches  her  sullenly. 

KITTY.  [Goes  to  the  staircase  door  and  calls  loudly.] 
Rose,  Rose — come  you  down  as  quick  as  you  can  run. 

ROSE.  [Coming  down.]  What's  all  this,  I'd  like  to 
know  ? 

KITTY.    It's  Lucy,  behaving  dreadful — O  you  must 
send  her  straight  away  from  the  house,  Rose. 
ROSE.    What  has  she  done,  then  ? 


ACT  HI  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  29 

KITTY.  Going  on  with  Robert.  Flirting,  Rose,  and 
kissing. 

ISABEL.  0  no,  mistress,  twasn't  so,  I  do  swear  to 
you. 

ROBERT.  [Brutally.]  Yes  'twas.  The  maid  so  put 
me  powerful  in  mind  of  someone  who — who — 

ROSE.  [Coldly.]  I  understand  you,  Robert.  Well, 
'tis  lucky  that  all  this  didn't  come  off  an  hour  or  so 
later. 

KITTY.     [Tearfully.]    0  Rose,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

ROSE.  I  mean  that  what's  not  broken  don't  need 
no  mending.  Robert  can  go  to  church  with  someone  else 
to-day,  he  can.  And  no  harm  done. 

[She  takes  up  the  bunch  of  orange  flowers  and 
begins  pulling  it  to  pieces  and  throwing  it  all 
about  the  room. 

KITTY.  0  Rose,  Rose,  don't  take  it  so  hard.  'Twasn't 
Robert's  fault.  'Twas  the  girl  off  the  road  what  led  him 
on.  I  know  it.  Tell  her  to  get  out  of  the  house.  I'll 
dress  you — I'll  do  the  work.  Only  be  just  and  sensible 
again ;  dear  Rose. 

ROSE.  Let  the  girl  bide.  It  makes  no  difference  to 
me.  There'll  be  no  marrying  for  me  to-day. 

[JOHN  comes  in  at  the  door. 

KITTY.  [Running  to  him.]  0  John,  John — do  you 
quiet  down  Rose  and  tell  her  to  get  upstairs  and  dress. 
She's  a-saying  that  she  won't  marry  Robert  because  of 
his  goings  on  with  the  new  servant — But,  0,  you'll  talk 
her  into  reason  again,  won't  you,  dear  John  ? 

JOHN.  Come,  come,  what's  all  this  cackle  about, 
Rose  ? 

ROSE.  I'm  breaking  off  with  Robert,  that's  all, 
John. 

JOHN.  Robert,  can't  you  take  and  explain  a  bit  what 
'tis. 

ROBERT.  [Sullenly.]  A  little  bit  of  play  'twixt  me 
and  the  wench  there,  and  that's  about  all,  I  reckon. 

JOHN.  Now  that's  an  unsensible  sort  of  thing  to  get 
doing  on  your  marriage  day,  to  my  thinking. 


30  THE   SEEDS   OF   LOVE  ACT  ra 

KITTY.  'Twasn't  Robert's  fault,  I  know.  'Twas  the 
maid  off  the  road  who  started  it. 

[Here  ISABEL  sinks  down  on  a  chair  by  the 
window,  leaning  her  arms  on  the  table  and 
bowing  her  head,  in  tears. 

JOHN.  [Going  to  the  door.]  Jeremy — Jeremy — come 
you  in  here  a  minute. 

[Instead  of  JEREMY,  LUBIN  comes  in. 

JOHN.     'Twas  Jeremy  I  did  call — not  you. 

LUBIN.     He's  gone  off  the  place  for  a  few  minutes. 

JOHN.     [Vexedly.]    Ah,  'tis  early  for  the  Red  Bull. 

LUBIN.  Can  I — can  I  do  anything  for  you, 
master  ? 

JOHN.  Not  unless  you  can  account  for  the  sort  of 
serving  wench  off  the  roadside  what  Jerry  has  put  upon 
us. 

LUBIN.    What  is  there  to  account  for  in  her,  master  ? 

ROSE.  [Passionately.]  0  I  don't  particular  mind 
about  what's  happened.  Let  her  kiss  with  Robert  if  she 
has  the  mind.  'Tis  always  the  man  who  commences. 

JOHN.  'Tis  not.  There  are  some  wenches  who  don't 
know  how  to  leave  anyone  alone.  Worser  than  cattle 
flies,  that  sort. 

ISABEL.  [Going  across  the  room  to  LUBIN'S  side.]  0 
you  shame  me  by  them  words,  I  bain't  that  sort  of  maid 
— you'll  answer  for  me — William  ? 

[LuBiN  silently  takes  her  hand. 

ROSE.  [Her  eyes  fixed  on  LUBIN.]  I'll  tell  you  what, 
John ;  I'll  tell  you,  Kitty.  I  wish  I'd  held  me  to  my  first 
lover  and  I  wish  'twas  with  Lubin  that  I  was  a-going  to 
the  church  to-day. 

ROBERT.  [Sullenly.]  Then  I'll  say  sommat,  Rose. 
I  wish  'twas  with  Isabel  that  I  was  getting  wed. 

JOHN.  Now,  now — 'Tis  like  two  children  a  quarrelling 
over  their  playthings.  Suppose  you  was  to  go  and  get 
yourself  dressed,  Rose-Anna — And  you  too,  Robert. 
Why,  the  traps  will  be  at  the  door  afore  you're  ready 
if  you  don't  quicken  yourselves  up  a  bit.  Kitty,  you 
go  and  help  your  sister. 


ACT  m  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  31 

ROSE.  [With  a  jealous  glance  at  Isabel.]  No,  I'll  have 
Lucy  with  me. 

JOHN.     That's  it,  you  keep  her  out  of  mischief 

KITTY.    I've  got  my  own  dress  to  put  on. 

JOHN.  And  Robert,  you  and  me  will  have  a  drink 
after  all  this  caddie.  'Tis  dry  work  getting  ready  for 
marriage  so  it  appears. 

ROBERT.     'Tis  fiery  dry  to  my  thinking. 

ROSE.  [Crossing  the  room  and  going  up  to  LTJBIN.]  I 
have  no  flowers  to  take  to  church  with  me,  William  ;  go 
you  to  the  waterside,  I  have  a  mind  to  carry  some  of  the 
blue  things  what  grow  there. 

KITTY.     Forget-me-nots,  you  mean  ! 

ROSE.  Forget-me-nots,  I  mean.  And  none  but  you 
to  gather  them  for  me,  William.  Because — because — 
well,  you  do  put  me  in  thoughts  of  someone  that  I  once 
held  and  now  have  lost.  That's  all. 

Curtain. 


ACT  III.— Scene  2. 

The  same  room  half  an  hour  later.  ISABEL  is  picking  up 
the  scattered  orange  blossom  which  she  ties  together 
and  lays  on  the  window  sill.  LUBIN  comes  in  with  a 
large  bunch  of  river  forget-me-nots. 

LUBIN.     I  didn't  think  to  find  you  here,  Isabel. 
ISABEL.     0  but  that  is  a  beautiful  blue  flower.     I  will 
take  the  bunch  upstairs.     She  is  all  dressed  and  ready 
for  it. 

LUBIN.     [Putting  it  on  the  table.]    No — do  you  bide 
a  moment  here  with  me. 

[ISABEL  looks  helplessly  at  LUBIN  who  takes  her 

hands  slowly  in  his. 
LUBIN.     What  are  we  going  to  do  ? 


32  THE   SEEDS   OF   LOVE  ACT  m 

ISABEL.    I  wish  as  we  had  never  touched  the  seeds. 

LUBIN.  O  cursed  seeds  of  love — Far  better  to  have 
left  all  as  'twas  yesterday  in  the  morning. 

ISABEL.  He  has  followed  me  like  my  shadow,  courting 
and  courting  me  hard  and  all  the  time,  Lubin. 

LUBIN.  She  sought  me  out  in  the  yard  at  day -break, 
and  what  I'd  have  given  twenty  years  of  life  for 
yester  eve  I  could  have  thrown  into  the  stream  this 
morning. 

ISABEL.     [Sadly.]    So  'tis  with  my  feelings. 

LUBIN.  She  has  altered  powerful,  to  my  fancy,  in 
these  years. 

ISABEL.  And  Robert  be  differenter  too  from  what  I 
do  remember.  [A  long  silence. 

LUBIN.  Have  you  thought  as  it  might  be  in  us  two 
these  changes  have  come  about,  Isabel  ? 

ISABEL.     I  was  just  the  maid  as  ever  I  was  until — 

LUBIN.  And  so  was  I  unchanged,  until  I  started 
travelling  up  on  the  same  road  as  you,  Isabel. 

[For  a  few  minutes  they  look  gravely  into  one 
another's  eyes. 

LUBIN.  [Taking  ISABEL'S  hands.  So  that's  how  'tis 
with  you  and  me. 

ISABEL.     0  Lubin — a  poor  serving  maid  like  I  am. 

LUBIN.     I'll  have  no  one  else  in  the  whole  world. 

ISABEL.  What  could  I  have  seen  in  him,  times  gone 
by? 

LUBIN.  And  was  it  ever  true  that  I  did  sit  through  a 
long  Sunday  her  hand  in  mine  ?  [Another  silence. 

ISABEL.  But  how's  us  ever  to  get  out  of  the  caddie 
where  we  be  ? 

LUBIN.  [Gaily.]  We'll  just  run  away  off  to  the  Fair 
as  t'other  servants  did. 

ISABEL.  And  leave  them  in  their  hate  for  one 
another  ?  No — 'twould  be  too  cruel.  Us'll  run  to  the 
young  mistress  what  knows  all  about  them  herbs.  I 
count  as  there  be  seeds  or  sommat  which  could  set  the 
hearts  of  them  two  back  in  the  right  places  again. 
Come — 


ACT  m  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  33 

LTJBIN.     Have  it  your  own  way  then.     But  'twill 
have  to  be  done  very  quickly  if  'tis  done  at  all. 
ISABEL.     Us'll  fly  over  the  ground  like. 

[She  puts  her  hand  impetuously  in  LUBIN'S  and 
they  go  out  together.  As  they  do  so,  ISABEL'S 
bonnet  falls  from  her  head  and  lies  unheeded 
on  the  floor. 


ACT  III.— Scene  3. 

A  few  minutes  later.  Liz  and  JANE  wearing  gay  sprigged 
dresses  and  feathered  bonnets,  come  to  the  room.  They 
carry  fans  and  handkerchiefs  in  their  hands.  It  is 
seen  that  their  gowns  are  not  fastened  at  the  back. 

Liz.    Such  a  house  I  never  heard  tell  of.     Ring,  ring 
at  the  bell  and  no  one  to  come  nigh. 

JANE.     Being  unused  to  bells,  sister,  maybe  as  us  did 
pull  them  wrong  or  sommat. 

Liz.     I  wish  we'd  had  the  gowns  made  different. 

JANE.    To  do  up  in  the  front — sensible  like. 

[They  twist  and  turn  in  front  of  the  glass  on  the 
wall,  absorbed  in  their  dress,  they  do  not 
notice  that  JEREMY  has  come  in  and  is 
watching  them  sarcastically. 

JEREMY.     Being  as  grey  as  th'  old  badger  don't  keep  a 
female  back  from  vanity. 

Liz.     0  dear,  Master  Jeremy,  what  a  turn  you  did 
give  me,  to  be  sure. 

JANE.    We  can't  find  no  one  in  this  house  to  attend 
upon  we. 

JEREMY.     I  count  as  you  can  not.     Bain't  no  one  here. 

Liz.    We  rang  for  the  wench  a  many  time. 

JEREMY.     Ah,  and  you  might  ring. 

JANE.    We  want  someone  as '11  fasten  them  niggly 
hooks  to  our  gowns. 


34  THE   SEEDS   OF   LOVE  ACT  ra 

JEREMY.     Ah,  and  you  may  want. 

Liz.  Our  sight  bain't  clear  enough  to  do  one  for 
t'other,  the  eyelets  be  made  so  small. 

JEREMY.    Count  as  you'll  have  to  go  unfastened  then. 

JANE.  0  now  you  be  a  laughing  at  us.  Call  the  wench 
down,  or  we  shall  never  be  ready  in  time. 

JEREMY.  Man  and  maid  be  both  gone  off.  Same  as 
t'others,  us'll  have  to  do  without  service 

Liz.     Gone  off  ! 

JANE.     Runned  clean  away  ? 

JEREMY.    That's  about  It. 

JANE.  Well  now,  sister,  us'll  have  to  ask  the  little 
Miss  to  help  we. 

JEREMY.  I've  harnessed  the  mare  a  many  time. 
Don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  get  the  both  of  you  fixed  into 
the  shafts  like. 

Liz  and  JANE.  [Fanning  themselves  coyly.]  0  Master 
Jeremy — 

JEREMY.  Come  now.  Let's  have  a  try.  I  count  as  no 
one  have  a  steadier  hand  nor  me  this  side  of  the  river, 
nor  a  finer  eye  for  seeing  as  everything  be  in  its  place. 
I'll  settle  the  both  of  you  afore  I  gets  out  the  horse  and 
trap.  Turn  round. 

[The  sisters  turn  awkwardly,  and  with  very 
self-conscious  airs  begin  to  flutter  their  fans. 
JEREMY  quickly  hooks  each  gown  in  suc- 
cession. As  he  finishes  the  fastening  of 
JANE'S  dress  ROSE,  followed  by  KITTY, 
comes  into  the  room.  She  is  wearing  her 
bridal  gown  and  veil. 

ROSE.     [Pausing.]    What's  this,  Jeremy  ? 

JEREMY.  The  servants  be  runned  away  same  as 
t'others — that's  all,  mistress. 

ROSE.    Run  away  ? 

JEREMY.  So  I^do  reckon.  Bain't  anywhere  about 
the  place. 

ROSE.  [Flinging  herself  down  on  a  chair  by  the  table, 
in  front  of  $the  bunch  ?o/  forget-me-nots.]  Let  them  be 
found.  Let  them  be  brought  back  at  once. 


ACT  m  THE   SEEDS    OF    LOVE  35 

KITTY.  For  my  part  I'm  glad  they've  gone  off.  The 
girl  was  a  wild,  bad  thing.  I  saw  how  she  went  on  with 
Robert. 

ROSE.  [Brokenly  to  JEREMY.]  You  found  them.  Bring 
them  back,  Jerry. 

KITTY.  No — wait  till  you  and  Robert  are  made  man 
and  wife,  Rose.  Then  'twon't  matter  quite  so  much. 

ROSE.     I'll  never  wed  me  to  Robert,     I'll  only  wed 
me  to  him  who  gathered  these  blue  flowers  here. 
KITTY.     Good  heavens,  Rose,  'twas  the  man  William. 
[KITTY  looks  in  consternation  from  ROSE  to  the 
cousins  and  then  to  JEREMY,  who  remains 
impassive  and  uninterested,  sucking  a  straw. 
ROSE  clasps  her  hands  round  the  forget-me- 
nots   and  sits   gazing  at  them,   desolately 
unhappy.    ROBERT    enters.    He    is    very 
grandly  dressed  for  the  wedding,  but  as  he 
comes  into  the  room  he  sees  ISABEL'S  cotton 
bonnet  on  the  floor.     He  stoops,  picks  it  up 
and  laying  it  reverently  on  the  table,  sinks 
into  a  chair  opposite  ROSE  and  raising  one 
of  its  ribbons,  kisses  this  with  passion. 
ROBERT.    There — I'd  not  change  this  for  a  thousand 
sacks  of  gold— I  swear  I'd  not. 

KITTY.  Now  Robert — get  up,  the  two  of  you.  Are 
you  bewitched  or  sommat — 0  Jerry,  stir  them,  can't 
you. 

Liz.  Robert,  'tisn't  hardly  suitable — with  the  young 
miss  so  sweetly  pretty  in  her  white  gown. 

JANE.    And  wedding  veil  and  all.     And  sister  and  me 

hooked  up  into  our  new  sprigs,  ready  for  the  ceremony. 

JEREMY.     [Looking  at  them  with  cold  contempt.]    Let 

them  bide.     The  mush'll  swim  out  of  they  same  as  'twill 

swim  off  the  cider  vat     Just  let  the  young  fools  bide. 

KITTY.     0  this'll  never  do.    Jerry  forgetting  of  his 

manners  and  all.     [Calling  at  the  garden  door.]    John, 

John,  come  you  here  quickly,  there's  shocking  goings 

on.  [JOHN,  in  best  clothes  comes  in. 

JOHN.    What's  the  rattle  now,  Kitty  ?     I  declare  I 


36  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  ACT  ra 

might  be  turning  round  on  top  of  my  own  mill  wheel 
such  times  as  these. 

KITTY.  Rose  says  she  won't  wed  Robert,  and  Robert's 
gone  off  his  head  all  along  of  that  naughty  servant 
maid. 

[JOHN  stands  contemplating  ROSE  and  ROBERT. 
ROSE  seems  lost  to  the  outside  world  and  is 
gazing  with  tears  at  her  forget-me-nots, 
whilst  ROBERT,  in  sullen  gloom,  keeps  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  sun-bonnet. 

JOHN.  Come,  Rose,  'tis  time  you  commenced  to  act 
a  bit  different.  [ROSE  does  not  answer. 

JOHN.  Come,  Robert,  if  you  play  false  to  my  sister  at 
the  last  moment,  you  know  with  whom  you'll  have  to 
reckon  like.  [ROBERT  pays  no  heed  to  him. 

JOHN.  [To  JEREMY.]  Can  you  do  naught  to  work 
upon  them  a  bit,  Jerry  ? 

JEREMY.  I'd  have  a  jug  of  cider  in,  master.  'Twill 
settle  them  all.  Folks  do  get  'sterical  and  vapourish 
face  to  face  with  matrimony.  Put  some  drink  afore  of 
them,  and  see  how  'twill  act. 

Liz.     0  what  a  wise  thought,  Master  Jerry. 

JANE.    Most  suitable,  I  call  it. 

[Here  MARY  MEADOWS  comes  in,  JOHN  turns 
eagerly  to  her. 

JOHN.  0  Mary — have  you  come  to  help  us  in  the  fix 
where  we  are  ?  [He  signs  to  ROSE  and  ROBERT. 

MARY.    What  has  happened,  John  ? 

JEREMY.    I'll  tell  you  in  a  couple  of  words,  mistress. 

Liz.     No — do  you  fetch  the  cider,  dear  Mister  Jeremy. 

JOHN.  'Tis  more  than  I  can  do  with,  Mary.  Rose  is 
set  against  Robert,  and  Robert  is  set  against  Rose. 
Rose — well  I'm  fairly  ashamed  to  mention  it — Rose  has 
lost  her  senses  and  would  wed  the  servant  William — and 
Robert  is  a-courting  of  the  maid. 

JEREMY.  Ah,  let  each  fool  follow  their  ownpiking, 
says  I. 

Liz.  And  sister  and  me  all  dressed  in  our  new  gowns 
for  the  church. 


ACT  in  THE    SEEDS    OF   LOVE  37 

JANE.  And  Jerry  had  to  do  the  hooking  for  we,  both 
of  the  servants  having  runned  away. 

MARY.  Well,  now  I'm  here  I'll  lend  a  hand.  I'll 
help  with  the  dinner  time  you're  at  church.  You  shall 
not  need  to  trouble  about  anything,  Mr.  John. 

JOHN.  0  once  I  do  get  them  to  the  church  and  the 
ring  fixed  and  all  I  shan't  trouble  about  nothing,  Mary. 
But  'tis  how  to  move  them  from  where  they  be  !  That's 
the  puzzle. 

ROSE.  I'll  never  move  till  the  hand  that  gathered 
these  flowers  be  here  to  raise  me. 

ROBERT.  I'll  sit  here  to  the  end  of  the  world  sooner 
nor  go  along  to  be  wed  with  Miss  over  there. 

MARY.   'Tis  midsummer  heat  have  turned  their  brains. 
But  I  know  a  cooling  draught  that  will  heal  them  of  their 
sickness.     Jeremy,  do  you  step  into  the  garden  and 
bring  me  a  handful  of  fresh  violet  leaves,  one  blossom 
from  the  heartsease  and  a  sprig  of  rosemary. 
JEREMY.     [Sighing.]    What  next  ? 
JOHN.     Get  gone  at  once,  Jerry. 

[JEREMY  goes  to  the  door — as  he  does  so  Liz  and 

JANE  start  up  and  follow  him. 

Liz.  Sister  and  me  will  come  along  and  help  you, 
dear  Mr.  Jeremy. 

JANE.  And  that  us  will,  if  our  new  gowns  bain't 
hooked  too  tight  for  we  to  bend. 

[They  follow  JEREMY  to  the  garden.  KITTY 
silently  leaves  the  room  also.  ROSE  and 
ROBERT  remain  lost  in  their  sorrowful 
reflections.  JOHN  and  MARY  look  at 
them  for  a  moment  and  then  turn  to  one 
another. 

JOHN.  Mary,  I  never  thought  to  see  such  a  thing  as 
this. 

MARY.  You  take  my  word  for  it,  John,  the  storm 
will  soon  be  blown  away. 

JOHN.  I  don't  know  how  I  should  stand  up  against 
the  worry  of  it  all,  wasn't  it  for  you,  Mary. 

[.4  short  silence. 


38  THE    SEEDS    OF   LOVE  ACT  m 

JOHN.     [Taking  MARY'S  hand.]     'Twill  be  a  bit  lone- 
some for  me  here,  when  they've  gone  off,  Mary. 
MARY.    You'll  have  Kitty  to  do  for  you  then. 
JOHN.     Kitty  be  going  to  live  along  of  them  at  Bristol 
too,  after  a  while. 

MARY.     [Looking  round  the  room.]    Then  I  count  as 
it  might  feel  a  bit  desolate  like  in  this  great  house  alone. 
JOHN.     [Taking  MARY'S  hand..'}    I   cannot  face   it, 
Mary.     I've  loved  you  many  years,  you  know. 
MARY.     I  know  you  have,  dear  John. 
JOHN.    Can't  you  forget  he  what  was  false  to  you ,  days 
gone  by,  and  take  me  as  your  husband  now  ? 
MARY.     [Doubtfully.]    I  don't  hardly  know. 
JOHN.     You  used  to  sing  sommat — the  grass  that  was 
trampled  under  foot,  give  it  time,  it  will  rise  up  again. 

MARY.  [Drying  her  eyes.]  Ah,  it  has  risen,  dear 
John — and  I  count  it  have  covered  the  wound  of  those 
past  days — my  heart  do  tell  me  so,  this  minute. 

JOHN.     [Holding  both  her  hands.]    Then  'tis  one  long 
midsummer  afore  you  and  me,  Mary. 
MARY.    That's  how  'twill  be,  dear  John. 

[JEREMY,  followed  by  the  cousins,  enters.    He 

holds   a   bunch   of  leaves   towards   MARY. 

JEREMY.    There  you  be,  mistress.     Fools'  drink  for 

fools.     A  mug  of  good  cider  would  have  fetched  them 

to  their  senses  quicker. 

[MARY  takes  the  bunch,  and  still  holding  JOHN'S 
hand,  leads  him  to  the  kitchen.    JEREMY 
watches  the  pair  sarcastically. 
JEREMY.     'Tis  all  finished  with  the  master,  then. 

[The  sisters  seat  themselves  on  the  couch  and  mop 

their  faces  with  handkerchiefs. 
Liz.     Dear  me,  'tis  warm. 

JANE.     I  hope  my  face  don't  show  mottled,  sister  ? 
JEREMY.     I  was  saying  as  how  'twas  all  finished  with 
the  master. 

,  followed  by  JOHN,  comes  forward  carrying 
two  glasses.  She  gives  one  to  ROSE  and  the 
other  to  ROBERT. 


ACT  m  THE    SEEDS    OF   LOVE  39 

MARY.  Now  do  you  take  a  good  draught  of  this,  the 
both  of  you.  With  violet  leaves  the  fever  of  the  mind 
is  calmed,  and  heartsease  lightens  every  trouble  caused 
by  love.  Rosemary  do  put  new  life  to  anyone  with  its 
sweetness,  and  cold  spring  water  does  the  rest. 

[She  leaves  the  table  and  stands  far  back  in  the 
room  by  JOHN'S  side.  ROSE  slowly  lifts 
her  glass  and  begins  to  drink.  ROBERT 
does  the  same.  They  are  watched  with 
anxiety  by  all  in  the  room.  When  they 
have  emptied  their  glasses  ROSE  dries  her 
tears  and  pushes  the  flowers  a  little  way  from 
her.  ROBERT  shakes  himself  and  moves 
the  cotton  bonnet  so  that  it  falls  unheeded  to 
the  floor.  Meanwhile  KITTY  has  come  quietly 
to  the  garden  door  and  stands  there  watching 
the  scene  intently. 

Liz.     Bain't  we  going  to  get  a  drink  too  ? 
JANE.     Seems  as  though  master  have  been  and  forgot 
we. 

JEREMY.  [Starting  up  and  going  to  the  kitchen.]  If  I've 
been  and  forgot  you  two  old  women,  I've  remembered 
myself.  Be  blowed  if  I  can  get  through  any  more  of 
this  foolishness  without  a  wet  of  my  mouth. 

[He  goes  out. 

ROSE.  [Speaking  faintly.]  Does  it  show  upon  my 
face,  the  crying,  Robert  ? 

ROBERT.  [Looking  at  her.]  No,  no,  Rose,  your  eyes 
be  brighter  nor  ever  they  were. 

ROSE.  [Pushing  the  forget-me-nots  yet  further  away.] 
Those  flowers  are  dying.  My  fancy  ones  were  best. 

KITTY.  [Coming  forward  with  the  orange  blossoms.] 
Here  they  are,  dear  Rose. 

ROSE.  [Taking  them.]  0  how  beautiful  they  do  look. 
I  declare  I  can  smell  the  sweetness  coming  out  from 
them,  Robert. 

ROBERT.     All  the  orange  blossom  in  the  world  bain't 
so  sweet  as  one  kiss  from  your  lips,  Rose. 
ROSE.    Now  is  that  truly  so  ? 


40  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  ACT  m 

ROBERT.  Ah,  'tis  heavy  work  a- waiting  for  the 
coach,  Rose. 

JOHN.  [Coming  forward  and  taking  MARY'S  hand.] 
And  yours  won't  be  the  only  marriage  Rose-Anna. 
Did  you  never  think  that  me  and  Mary  might — 

KITTY.  [Running  forward.]  But  I  did — 0  so  many 
times,  John.  [JEREMY  enters  with  LUBIN  and  ISABEL. 

JEREMY.  Servants  be  corned  back.  Man  was  to  the 
Red  Bull,  I  count.  Female  a-washing  and  a-combing  of 
herself  in  the  barn. 

ROSE.  [Coldly.]  I  don't  care  whether  they  be  here 
or  not.  Set  them  to  work,  Jerry,  whilst  we  are  to  church. 

Liz.  That's  it,  Master  Jeremy.  I  was  never  so  put 
out  in  my  life,  as  when  sister  did  keep  on  ringing  and  the 
wench  was  not  there  to  help  us  on  with  our  gowns. 

[ROSE  and  ROBERT  get  up  and  go  towards  the 
door.   They  pause  before  LUBIN  and  ISABEL. 

ROSE.  The  man  puts  me  in  mind  of  someone  whom 
I  knew  before,  called  Lubin.  I  thought  I  had  a  fancy 
for  him  once — but  'twasn't  really  so. 

ROBERT.  And  the  girl  do  favour  a  little  servant 
wench  from  Framilode. 

ROSE.  [Jealously.]  You  never  went  a-courting  with 
a  servant  wench,  now  did  you,  my  heart's  dearest  ? 

ROBERT.  Never  in  all  my  days,  Rose.  'Twas  but 
the  fanciful  thoughts  of  a  boy  towards  she,  that  I  had. 

ROSE.  [Putting  her  arm  in  ROBERT'S.]  Well,  we 
have  nothing  to  do  with  anything  more  of  it  now,  dear 
Robert. 

ROBERT.  You're  about  right,  my  true  love,  we'll  get 
us  off  to  the  church. 

JEREMY.  Ah,  coach  have  been  waiting  a  smartish 
while,  I  reckon.  'Tis  on  master  as  expense'll  fall. 

[RosE  and  ROBERT  with  cold  glances  at  LUBIN 
and  ISABEL,  pass  out  of  the  door. 

JOHN.  [Giving  his  arm  to  MARY.]  Now,  Mary — 
now,  Kitty.  [They  pass  out. 

Liz.  Now,  Jeremy,  sister  and  me  bain't  going  off  all 
alone. 


ACT  m  THE   SEEDS    OF   LOVE  41 

JEREMY.  [Offering  an  arm  to  each.]  No  further  than 
the  church  door,  I  say.  I've  better  things  to  do  nor 
a-giving  of  my  arm  to  females  be  they  never  so  full  of 
wiles.  And  you  two  do  beat  many  what  bain't  near  so 
long  in  the  tusk,  ah,  that  you  does. 

[JEREMY  goes  out  with  the  sisters. 
LTJBIN.     [To  ISABEL.]    And  shall  we  go  off  into  the 
meadows,  Isabel,  seeing  that  we  are  quite  forgot  ? 

ISABEL.  No — 'tis  through  these  faithless  ones  as 
us  have  learnt  to  understand  the  hearts  within  of  we. 
Let's  bide  and  get  the  marriage  dinner  ready  for  them 
first. 

[She  stretches  both  her  hands  towards  LUBIN, 
who  takes  them  reverently  in  his  as  the 
Curtain  falls. 


THE    NEW    YEAR 


L.  T.  6 


CHARACTERS. 

STEVE  BROWNING,  a  Blacksmith,  also  Parish  Clerk. 

GEORGE  DAVIS,  a  Carpenter. 

HARRY  Moss,  a  young  Tramp. 

MAY  BROWNING. 

JANE  BROWNING. 

DORRY  BROWNING,  aged  twelve. 

ANNIE  SIMS. 

ROSE  SIMS. 

VASHTI  REED. 


THE    NEW    YEAR. 


ACT  I.— Scene  1. 

A  country  roadside.  It  is  late  afternoon  and  already  dusk. 
MAY  BROWNING  with  HARRY  Moss  come  slowly 
forward.  Close  to  a  stile  which  is  a  little  off  the  road, 
MAY  stops. 

MAY.  There,  you  don't  need  to  come  no  further  with 
I,  Harry  Moss.  You  get  on  quick  towards  the  town 
afore  the  night  be  upon  you,  and  the  snow,  too. 

HARRY.  I  don't  care  much  about  leaving  you  like  this 
on  the  roadside,  May.  And  that's  the  truth,  'tis. 

MAY.  Don't  you  take  no  more  thought  for  I,  Harry. 
'Tis  a  good  boy  as  you've  been  to  I  since  the  day  when 
we  fell  in  together.  But  now  there  bain't  no  more  need 
for  you  to  hold  back  your  steps,  going  slow  and  heavy 
when  you  might  run  spry  and  light.  For  'tis  home  as 
I  be  corned  to  now,  I  be.  You  go  your  way. 

HARRY.  I  see  naught  of  any  house  afore  us  or  behind. 
'Tis  very  likely  dusk  as  is  upon  us,  or  may  happen  'tis 
the  fog  getting  up  from  the  river. 

MAY.  [Coughing.']  Look  you  across  that  stile,  Harry. 
There  be  a  field  path,  bain't  there  ? 

HARRY.  [Taking  a  few  steps  to  the  right  and  peering 
through  the  gloom.]  Ah,  and  that  there  be. 

MAY.  And  at  t'other  end  of  it  a  house  what's  got  a 
garden  fence  all  round. 

HARRY.  Ah — and  'tis  so.  And  now  as  I  comes  to 
look  there  be  a  light  shining  from  out  the  windows  of  it, 
too,  though  'tis  shining  dim-like  in  the  mist. 


4  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  i 

MAY.  'Tis  that  yonder's  my  home,  Harry.  There's 
the  door  where  I  must  stand  and  knock. 

[ For  a  moment  she  draws  the  shawl  over  her  face 
and  is  shaken  with  weeping. 

HARRY.     I  wouldn't  take  on  so,  if  'twas  me. 

MAY.  And  did  you  say  as  how  there  was  a  light  in 
the  window  ?  'Twill  be  but  fire  light  then,  for  th'old 
woman  she  never  would  bring  out  the  lamp  afore  'twas 
night,  close-handed  old  she-cat  as  her  was,  what'd  lick 
up  a  drop  of  oil  on  to  the  tongue  of  her  sooner  nor  it 
should  go  wasted. 

HARRY.  There,  'tis  shining  better  now — or  maybe 
as  the  fog  have  shifted. 

MAY.     'Tis  nigh  to  home  as  I  be,  Harry. 

HARRY.  Then  get  and  stand  up  out  of  the  wet  grass 
there,  and  I'll  go  along  of  you  a  bit  further.  'Twill  not 
be  much  out  of  my  way.  Nothing  to  take  no  count  of. 

MAY.     No,  no,  Harry.     I  bain't  going  to  cross  that 

field,  nor  yet  stand  at  the  door  knocking  till  the  dark  has 

fallen  on  me.     Why,  is  it  like  as  I'd  let  them  see  me 

coming  over  the  meadow  and  going  through  the  gate 

in  this  ?     [Holding  up   a    ragged    shawl.']     In    these  ? 

[Pointing  to  her  broken  shoes.]    And — as  I  be  to-day. 

[Spreading   out   her   arms   and   then   suddenly 

bending   forward    in   a  fit    of   anguished 

coughing. 

HARRY.  There,  there,  you  be  one  as  is  too  handy 
with  the  tongue,  like.  Don't  you  go  for  to  waste  the 
breath  inside  of  you  when  you'll  be  wanting  all  your 
words  for  they  as  bides  up  yonder  and  as  doesn't  know 
that  you  be  coming  back. 

MAY.  [Throwing  apart  her  shawl  and  struggling  with 
her  cough.]  Harry,  you  take  the  tin  and  fill  it  at  the 
ditch  and  give  I  to  drink.  'Tis  all  live  coals  within  I 
here,  so  'tis. 

HARRY.  You  get  along  home,  and  maybe  as  them'll 
find  summat  better  nor  water  from  the  ditch  to  give 
you. 

MAY.    No,  no,  what  was  I  a-saying  to  you  ?     The 


ACT  i  THE   NEW   YEAR  5 

dark  must  fall  and  cover  me,  or  I  won't  never  go  across 
the  field  nor  a-nigh  the  house.  Give  I  to  drink,  give  I 
to  drink.  And  then  let  me  bide  in  quiet  till  all  of  the 
light  be  gone. 

HARRY.  [Taking  out  a  tin  mug  from  the  bundle  beside 
her.]  Where  be  I  to  find  drink,  and  the  frost  lying  stiff 
upon  the  ground  ? 

MAY.  [Pointing.]  Up  yonder,  where  the  ash  tree  do 
stand.  Look  you  there,  'tis  a  bit  of  spouting  as  do  come 
through  the  hedge,  and  water  from  it,  flowing  downwards 
away  to  the  ditch. 

[HARRY  goes  off  with  the  can.    MAY  watches 
him,  drawing  her  shawl  again  about  her 
and  striving  to  suppress  a  fit  of  coughing. 
[HARRY  returns  and  holds  out  the  can. 

MAY.  'Tis  not  very  quick  as  you've  been,  Harry 
Moss.  Here — give  it  to  I  fast.  Give  ! 

[HARRY  puts  the  can  towards  her  and  she  takes 
it  in  her  hands,  which  shake  feverishly,  and 
she  drinks  with  sharp  avidity. 

MAY.  'Tis  the  taste  as  I  have  thought  on  these  many 
a  year.  Ah,  and  have  gotten  into  my  mouth,  too,  when 
I  did  lay  sleeping,  that  I  have.  Water  from  yonder 
spout,  with  the  taste  of  dead  leaves  sharp  in  it.  Drink 
of  it,  too,  Harry. 

HARRY.  'Tis  no  water  as  I  wants,  May.  Give  I 
summat  as '11  lie  more  warm  and  comfortable  to  th' 
inside  like.  I  bain't  one  for  much  water,  and  that's  the 
truth,  'tis.  [He  empties  the  water  on  the  ground. 

MAY.  Then  go  you  out  upon  your  way,  Harry  Moss, 
for  the  dark  be  gathering  on  us  fast,  and  there  be  many 
a  mile  afore  you  to  the  town,  where  the  lamps  do  shine 
and  'tis  bright  and  warm  in  the  places  where  they  sells 
the  drink. 

HARRY.  Once  I  sets  off  running  by  myself,  I'll  get 
there  fast  enough,  May.  But  I  be  going  to  stop  along 
of  you  a  bit  more,  for  I  don't  care  much  about  letting 
you  bide  lonesome  on  the  road,  like. 

MAY.    Then  sit  you  down  aside  of  me,  Harry,  and  the 


6  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  i 

heat  in  my  body,  which  is  like  flames,  shall  maybe  warm 
yourn,  too. 

HARRY.  [Sitting  down  by  her  side.]  'Tis  a  fine  thing 
to  have  a  home  what  you  can  get  in  and  go  to,  May,  with 
a  bit  of  fire  to  heat  the  limbs  of  you  at,  and  plenty  of 
victuals  as  you  can  put  inside.  How  was  it  as  you  ever 
came  away  from  it,  like  ? 

MAY.  Ah,  and  that's  what  I  be  asking  of  myself  most 
of  the  time,  Harry  !  For,  'tis  summat  like  a  twelve  or 
eleven  year  since  I  shut  the  door  behind  me  and  went  out. 

[A  slight  pause. 

MAY.     Away  from  them  all,  upon  the  road — so  'twas. 

HARRY.  And  never  see'd  no  more  of  them,  nor  sent 
to  say  how  'twas  with  you,  nor  nothing  ? 

MAY.  Nor  nothing,  Harry.  Went  out  and  shut  the 
door  behind  me.  And  'twas  finished. 

[A  long  pause,  during  which  the  darkness  has 
gathered. 

HARRY.  Whatever  worked  on  you  for  to  do  such  a 
thing,  May  ? 

MAY.     [Bitterly.]    Ah  now,  whatever  did  ! 

HARRY.  'Tweren't  as  though  you  might  have  been 
a  young  wench,  flighty  like,  all  for  the  town  and  for  they 
as  goes  up  and  about  the  streets  of  it.  For,  look  you 
here,  'tis  an  old  woman  as  you  be  now,  May,  and  has  been 
a  twenty  year  or  more,  I  don't  doubt. 

MAY.  An  old  woman  be  I,  Harry  ?  Well,  to  the 
likes  of  you  'tis  so,  I  count.  But  a  twelve  year  gone 
by,  O,  'twas  a  fine  enough  looking  maid  as  I  was  then — 
Only  a  wild  one,  Harry,  a  wild  one,  all  for  the  free  ways 
of  the  road  and  the  lights  of  the  fair — And  for  the  sun 
to  rise  in  one  place  where  I  was,  and  for  I  to  be  in 
t'other  when  her  should  set. 

HABJBY.  I'd  keep  my  breath  for  when  'twas  wanted, 
if  'twas  me. 

MAY.  Come,  look  I  in  the  face,  Harry  Moss,  and  tell 
I  if  so  be  as  they'll  be  likely  to  know  I  again  up  at  home  ? 

HARRY.  How  be  I  to  tell  you  such  a  thing,  May, 
seeing  that  'tis  but  a  ten  days  or  less  as  I've  been  along 


ACT  i  THE   NEW   YEAR  7 

of  you  on  the  road  ?  And  seeing  that  when  you  was  a 
young  wench  I  never  knowed  the  looks  of  you  neither  ? 

MAY.  Say  how  the  face  of  I  do  seem  to  you  now, 
Harry,  and  then  I'll  tell  you  how  'twas  in  the  days  gone 
by? 

HARRY.  Tis  all  too  dark  like  for  to  see  clear,  May. 
The  night  be  coming  upon  we  wonderful  fast. 

MAY.  The  hair,  'twas  bright  upon  my  head  eleven 
years  gone  by,  Harry.  'Twas  glancing,  as  might  be  the 
wing  of  a  thrush,  so  'twas. 

HARRY.  Well,  'tis  as  the  frost  might  lie  on  a  dead 
leaf  now,  May,  that  it  be. 

MAY.  And  the  colour  on  me  was  as  a  rose,  and  my 
limbs  was  straight.  'Twas  fleet  like  a  rabbit  as  I  could 
get  about,  the  days  that  was  then,  Harry. 

HARRY.  'Tis  a  poor  old  bent  woman  as  you  be  now, 
May. 

MAY.  Ah,  Death  have  been  tapping  on  the  door  of 
my  body  this  long  while,  but,  please  God,  I  can  hold  me 
with  the  best  of  them  yet,  Harry,  and  that  I  can. 
Victuals  to  th'  inside  of  I  and  a  bit  of  clothing  to  my 
bones,  with  summat  to  quiet  this  cough  as  doubles  of  I 
up.  Why,  there,  Harry,  you  won't  know  as  'tis  me 
when  I've  been  to  home  a  day  or  two — or  may  be  as 
'twill  take  a  week. 

HARRY.  I  count  'twill  take  a  rare  lot  of  victuals 
afore  you  be  set  up  as  you  once  was,  May. 

MAY.  Look  you  in  my  eyes,  Harry.  They  may  not 
know  me  up  at  home  by  the  hair,  which  is  different  to 
what  'twas,  or  by  the  form  of  me,  which  be  got  poor 
and  nesh  like.  But  in  the  eye  there  don't  come  never 
no  change.  So  look  you  at  they,  Harry,  and  tell  I  how 
it  do  appear  to  you. 

HARRY.  There  be  darkness  lying  atween  you  and 
me,  May. 

MAY.  Then  come  you  close  to  I,  Harry,  and  look 
well  into  they. 

HARRY.  Them  be  set  open  wonderful  wide  and  'tie 
as  though  a  heat  corned  out  from  they.  'Tis  not  anyone 


8  THE    NEW    YEAR  ACT  I 

as  might  care  much  for  to  look  into  the  eyes  what  you've 
got. 

MAY.  [With  despondence.]  Maybe  then,  as  them'll 
not  know  as  'tis  me,  Harry  Moss. 

HAKRY.  I  count  as  they'll  be  hard  put  to,  and  that's 
the  truth. 

MAY.  The  note  of  me  be  changed,  too,  with  this  cold 
what  I  have,  and  the  breath  of  me  so  short,  but  'twon't 
be  long,  I  count,  afore  they  sees  who  'tis.  Though  all 
be  changed  to  th  eye  like,  there'll  be  summat  in  me 
as'll  tell  they.  And  'tis  not  a  thing  of  shape,  nor  of 
colour  as'll  speak  for  I — But  'tis  summat  what  do  come 
straight  out  of  the  hearts  of  we  and  do  say  better  words 
for  we  nor  what  the  looks  nor  tongues  of  us  might  tell. 
You  mind  me,  Harry,  there's  that  which  will  come  out 
of  me  as'll  bring  they  to  know  who  'tis. 

HARRY.  Ah,  I  reckon  as  you'll  not  let  them  bide  till 
they  does. 

MAY.  And  when  they  do  know,  and  when  they  sees 
who  'tis,  I  count  as  they'll  be  good  to  me,  I  count  they 
will.  I  did  used  to  think  as  Steve,  he  was  a  hard  one, 
and  th'  old  woman  what's  his  mother,  hard  too— And 
that  it  did  please  him  for  to  keep  a  rein  on  me  like,  but  I 
sees  thing  different  now. 

HARRY.  Ah,  'tis  one  thing  to  see  by  candle  and 
another  by  day. 

MAY.  For  'twas  wild  as  I  was  in  the  time  gone  by. 
Wild  after  pleasuring  and  the  noise  in  the  town,  and  men 
a-looking  at  the  countenance  of  I,  and  a-turning  back 
for  to  look  again.  But,  hark  you  here,  'tis  powerful 
changed  as  I  be  now. 

HARRY.  Ah,  I  count  as  you  be.  Be  changed  from 
a  young  woman  into  an  old  one. 

MAY.  I'm  finished  with  the  road  journeying  and 
standing  about  in  the  streets  on  market  days  and  the 
talk  with  men  in  the  drinking  places — Men  what  don't 
want  to  look  more  nor  once  on  I  now,  and  what  used  to 
follow  if  'twasn't  only  a  bit  of  eyelid  as  I'd  lift  on  them, 
times  that  is  gone. 


ACT  i  THE   NEW   YEAR  9 

HARRY.  Ah,  'twould  take  a  lot  of  looking  to  see  you 
as  you  was. 

MAY.  Yes,  I  be  finished  with  all  of  it  now,  and 
willing  for  to  bide  quiet  at  the  fireside  and  to  stay  with 
the  four  walls  round  I  and  the  door  shut. 

HARRY.     I  reckon  as  you  be. 

MAY.  And  I'm  thinking  as  they'll  be  rare  pleased  for 
to  have  I  in  the  house  again.  'Twill  be  another  pair  of 
hands  to  the  work  like.  And  when  I  was  young,  'twas 
not  on  work  as  I  was  set  much. 

HARRY.    Ah,  I  did  guess  as  much. 

MAY.  But  when  I  gets  a  bit  over  this  here  nasty 
cough,  'tis  a  strong  arm  as  them'll  have  working  for 
they  ;  Steve,  th'  old  woman  what's  his  mother,  and 
little  Dorry,  too. 

HARRY.     Dorry  ?     I  han't  heard  tell  of  she. 

MAY.  That's  my  little  baby  as  was,  Harry  Moss.  I 
left  she  crawling  on  the  floor,  and  now  I  count  as  she  be 
growed  into  a  rare  big  girl.  Bless  the  innocent  heart 
of  her  ! 

HARRY.  Whatever  led  you  to  do  such  a  thing,  I  can't 
think  !  You  must  have  been  drove  to  it  like,  wasn't 
you  ? 

MAY.  'Twas  summat  inside  of  me  as  drove  I,  then. 
'Twas  very  likely  the  blood  of  they  gipsies  which  did 
leap  in  I,  so  that  when  I  was  tied  up  to  Steve,  'twas  as 
if  they  had  got  I  shut  in  a  box.  'Twas  the  bridle  on 
my  head  and  the  bit  in  the  mouth  of  I ;  and  to  be  held 
in  where  once  I  had  gone  free.  [A  short  pause. 

MAY.  And  I  turned  wild,  Harry,  for  the  very  birds 
seemed  to  be  calling  I  from  the  hedges  to  come  out  along 
of  they,  and  the  berries  tossing  in  the  wind,  and  the 
leaves  blowing  away  quick  from  where  they'd  been 
stuck  all  summer.  All  of  it  spoke  to  I,  and  stirred  I 
powerful,  so  that  one  morning  when  the  sun  was  up 
and  the  breeze  running,  I  corned  out  into  the  air,  Harry, 
and  shut  the  door  behind  I.  And  'twas  done— so  'twas. 

HARRY.  And  didn't  they  never  try  for  to  stop  you, 
nor  for  to  bring  you  back,  May  ? 


10  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  i 

MAY.     No,  Harry,  they  did  not. 

HARRY.  And  where  was  it  you  did  go  to,  May,  once 
you  was  out  and  the  door  shut  ahind  of  you  ? 

MAY.  Ah — where  !  To  the  east,  to  the  south,  every 
part.  'Twas  morning  with  I  in  that  time,  and  the  heart 
of  I  was  warm.  And  them  as  went  along  of  I  on  the 
road,  did  cast  but  one  look  into  the  countenance  of  I. 
Then  'twas  the  best  as  they  could  give  as  I  might  take  ; 
and  'twas  for  no  lodging  as  I  did  want  when  dark  did 
come  falling. 

HARRY.  And  yet,  look  you  here,  you  be  brought 
down  terrible  low,  May. 

MAY.  The  fine  looks  of  a  woman  be  as  grass,  Harry, 
and  in  the  heat  of  the  day  they  do  wither  and  die.  And 
that  what  has  once  been  a  grand  flower  in  the  hand  of  a 
man  is  dropped  upon  the  ground  and  spat  upon,  maybe. 
So  'twas  with  I. 

[She  bows  her  head  on  her  knees,  and  for  a 
moment  is  shaken  with  sudden  grief. 

HARRY.  Don't  you  take  on  so,  May.  Look  you  here, 
you  be  corned  to  the  end  of  your  journeying  this  day, 
and  that  you  be. 

MAY.  [Raising  her  head.]  Ah,  'tis  so,  'tis  so.  And 
'tis  rare  glad  as  them'll  be  to  see  I  once  again.  Steve, 
he's  a  hard  man,  but  a  good  one — And  I'll  tell  you  this, 
Harry  Moss,  he'll  never  take  up  with  no  woman  what's 
not  me — and  that  he  won't— I  never  knowed  him  much 
as  look  on  one,  times  past ;  and  'twill  be  the  same  as 
ever  now,  I  reckon.  And  little  Dorry,  'twill  be  fine  for 
her  to  get  her  mammy  back,  I  warrant — so  'twill. 

[A  slight  pause. 

MAY.  Th'  old  woman — well — I  shan't  take  it  amiss 
if  her  should  be  dead,  like.  Her  was  always  a  smartish 
old  vixen  to  I,  that  her  was,  and  her  did  rub  it  in  power- 
ful hard  as  Steve  was  above  I  in  his  station  and  that. 
God  rest  the  bones  of  she,  for  I  count  her'll  have  been 
lying  in  the  churchyard  a  good  few  years  by  now. 
But  I  bain't  one  to  bear  malice,  and  if  so  be  as 
her's  above  ground,  'tis  a  rare  poor  old  wretch  with 


ACT  i  THE   NEW   YEAR  11 

no  poison  to  the  tongue  of  she,  as  her'll  be  this  day — 
so  'tis. 

HARRY.  Look  you  here — the  snow's  begun  to  fall 
and  'tis  night.  Get  up  and  go  in  to  them  all  yonder. 
'Tis  thick  dark  now  and  there  be  no  one  on  the  road  to 
see  you  as  you  do  go. 

MAY.  Help  I  to  get  off  the  ground  then,  Harry,  for 
the  limbs  of  me  be  powerful  weak. 

HARRY.  [Lifting  her  up.]  The  feel  of  your  body  be 
as  burning  wood,  May. 

MAY.  [Standing  up.]  Put  me  against  the  stile, 
Harry,  and  then  let  I  bide  alone. 

HARRY.  Do  you  let  me  go  over  the  field  along  of  you, 
May,  just  to  the  door. 

MAY.  No,  no,  Harry,  get  you  off  to  the  town  and 
leave  me  to  bide  here  a  while  in  the  quiet  of  my  thoughts. 
'Tis  of  little  Dorry,  and  of  how  pleased  her'll  be  to  see  her 
mammy  once  again,  as  I  be  thinking.  But  you,  Harry 
Moss,  as  han't  got  no  home  to  go  to,  nor  fireside,  nor 
victuals,  you  set  off  towards  the  town.  And  go  you 
quick. 

HARRY.  There's  summat  in  me  what  doesn't  care 
about  leaving  you  so,  May. 

MAY.  And  if  ever  you  should  pass  this  way  come 
spring-time,  Harry,  when  the  bloom  is  white  on  the 
trees,  and  the  lambs  in  the  meadows,  come  you  up  to 
the  house  yonder,  and  may  be  as  I'll  be  able  to  give  you 
summat  to  keep  in  remembrance  of  me.  For  to-day, 
'tis  empty-handed  as  I  be. 

HARRY.  I  don't  want  nothing  from  you,  May,  I 
don't. 

MAY.  [Fumbling  in  her  shawl.]  There,  Harry — 'tis 
corned  back  to  my  mind  now.  [She  takes  out  part  of  a 
loaf  of  bread.]  Take  you  this  bread.  And  to-night, 
when  you  eats  of  it,  think  on  me,  and  as  how  I  be  to 
home  with  Steve  a-holding  of  my  hand  and  little  Dorry 
close  against  me  ;  and  plenty  of  good  victuals,  with  a 
bed  to  lie  upon  warm.  There,  Harry,  take  and  eat. 

[She  holds  the  bread  to  him 


12  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

HARRY.  [Taking  the  bread.]  I  count  'twill  all  be 
well  with  you  now,  May  ? 

MAY.  I  warrant  as  'twill,  for  I  be  right  to  home. 
But  go  you  towards  the  town,  Harry,  for  'tis  late.  And 
God  go  with  you,  my  dear,  now  and  all  time. 

HARRY.  I'll  set  off  running  then.  For  the  night, 
'tis  upon  us,  May,  and  the  snow,  'tis  thick  in  the  air. 

[MAY  turns  to  the  stile  and  leans  on  it  heavily, 
gazing  across  the  field.  HARRY  sets  off 
quickly  down  the  road. 


ACT  II.— Scene  1. 

The  living  room  in  the  Brownings'  cottage.  The  room  is 
divided  by  a  curtain  which  screens  the  fireside  end 
from  the  draught  of  the  principal  door. 

To  the  right  of  the  fireplace  is  a  door  leading  upstairs. 
Chairs  are  grouped  round  the  hearth,  and  there  is  a 
table  at  which  JANE  BROWNING  is  ironing  a  dress 
by  the  light  of  one  candle.  DORRY  leans  against  the 
table,  watching  her. 

JANE.  [Putting  aside  the  iron.]  There,  you  take 
and  lay  it  on  the  bed  upstairs,  and  mind  you  does  it 
careful,  for  I'm  not  a-going  to  iron  it  twice. 

[She  lays  the  dress  carefully  across  DORRY'S  arms. 

DORRY.    Don't  the  lace  look  nice,  Gran'ma  ? 

JANE.  You  get  along  upstairs  and  do  as  I  says,  and 
then  come  straight  down  again. 

DORRY.  Couldn't  I  put  it  on  once,  Gran'ma,  just  to 
see  how  it  do  look  on  me  ? 

JANE.  And  get  it  all  creased  up  afore  to-morrow  ! 
Whatever  next !  You  go  and  lay  it  on  the  bed  this 
minute,  do  you  hear  ? 


ACT  ii  THE   NEW   YEAR  13 

DORRY.  [Leaving  the  room  by  the  door  to  the  right.] 
I'd  like  to  put  it  on  just  once,  I  would. 

[JANE  BROWNING  blows  out  the  candle  and  puts 
away  the  iron  and  ironing  cloth.  She  stirs 
up  the  fire  and  then  sits  down  by  it  as  DORRY 
comes  back. 

DORRY.  Dad's  cleaning  of  himself  ever  so — I  heard 
the  water  splashing  something  dreadful  as  I  went  by 
his  door. 

JANE.  'Tis  a-smartening  of  hisself  up  for  this  here 
dancing  as  he  be  about,  I  reckon. 

DORRY.  [Sitting  down  on  a  stool.]  I'd  like  to  go 
along,  too,  and  see  the  dancing  up  at  the  schools  to- 
night, I  would. 

JANE.     And  what  next,  I  should  like  to  know ! 

DORRY.  And  wear  my  new  frock  what's  ironed,  and 
the  beads  what  Miss  Sims  gived  me. 

JANE.  [Looking  out  at  the  window.]  I'm  thinking  as 
we  shall  get  some  snow  by  and  bye.  'Tis  come  over  so 
dark  all  of  a  sudden. 

DORRY.  Couldn't  I  go  along  of  they,  Gran'ma,  and 
wear  my  new  frock,  and  the  beads,  too  ?  I  never  see'd 
them  dance  th'  old  year  out  yet,  I  haven't. 

JANE.  Get  along  with  you,  Dorry.  'Tis  many  a  year 
afore  you'll  be  of  an  age  for  such  foolishness.  And  that's 
what  I  calls  it,  this  messing  about  with  dancing  and 
music  and  I  don't  know  what. 

DORRY.  Katie  Sims  be  younger  nor  me  and  she's 
let  to  go,  she  is. 

JANE.  You  bain't  Katie  Sims,  nor  she  you.  And  if 
the  wedding  what's  to-morrow  isn't  enough  to  stuff  you 
up  with  nonsense,  I  don't  know  what  is.-f 

DORRY.  I  wish  it  was  to-morrow  now,  Gran'ma,  I  do. 
Shall  you  put  on  your  Sunday  gown  first  thing,  or  wait 
till  just  afore  we  goes  to  church  ? 

JANE.  How  your  tongue  do  go  !  Take  and  bide 
quiet  a  bit,  if  you  knows  how. 

DORRY.  I  shall  ask  Dad  if  I  may  go  along  of  him  and 
Miss  Sims  to  the  dance,  I  shall.  Dad's  got  that  kind  to 


14  THE    NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

me  since  last  night — he  gived  me  a  sixpence  to  buy  sweets 
this  morning  when  I  hadn't  asked.  And  won't  it  be  nice 
when  Miss  Sims  comes  here  to  live,  and  when  you  has 
someone  to  help  you  in  the  work,  Gran'ma  ? 

JANE.  Well— 'tis  to  be  hoped  as  'twill  be  all  right 
this  time. 

DORRY.  This  time,  Gran'ma !  Why,  wasn't  it  all 
right  when  Dad  was  married  afore,  then  ? 

JANE.  [Getting  the  lamp  from  a  shelf.]  I  don't  light 
up  as  a  rule  till  'tis  six  o'clock,  but  I  count  it's  a  bit  of 
snow  coming  as  have  darkened  the  air  like. 

DORRY.  Gran'ma,  isn't  Miss  Sims  nice-looking, 
don't  you  think  ?  I'd  like  to  wear  my  hair  like  hers  and 
have  earrings  a-hanging  from  me  and  a-shaking  when  I 
moves  my  head,  I  would. 

JANE.  [Setting  the  lamp  on  the  table.]  Here,  fetch 
me  the  matches,  do. 

DORRY.  [Bringing  the  matches.]  Was  my  mammy 
nice-looking,  like  Miss  Sims,  Gran'ma  ? 

JANE.  I'm  one  as  goes  by  other  things  nor  looks — 
For  like  as  not  'tis  fine  looks  as  is  the  undoing  of  most 
girls  as  has  them — give  me  a  plain  face  and  a  heart 
what's  pure,  I  says,  and  tis  not  far  out  as  you'll  be. 

DORRY.     Was  my  mammy's  heart  pure,  Gran'ma  ? 
[A   moment's   silence.     JANE    lights   the   lamp. 
DORRY  leans  at  the  table,  watching  her. 

DORRY.    Was  my  mammy's — 

[A  loud  knock  on  the  outside  door. 

JANE.  Who's  that  come  bothering  round !  Run 
and  see,  Dorry,  there's  a  good  child. 

DORRY.  It'll  be  Gran'ma  Vashti,  I  daresay.  She  do 
mostly  knock  at  the  door  loud  with  her  stick. 

[DoRRY  runs  to  the  window  and  looks  out. 

DORRY.     'Tis  her,  and  the  snow  white  all  upon  her. 
[DoRRY    goes  to  the  door  to  open  it. 

JANE.  [To  herself.]  Of  all  the  meddlesome  old 
women — why  can't  her  bide  till  her's  wanted. 

[DORRY  opens  the  door  wide,  and  VASHTI  comes 
slowly  in  to  the  room,  leaning  on  a  big  staff. 


ACT  n  THE   NEW   YEAR  15 

JANE.  Well,  Vashti  Reed,  and  what  brings  you  down 
from  the  hill  to-day  ?  'T would  have  been  better  had 
you  bid  at  home,  with  the  dark  coming  on  and  the  snow. 

DORRY.  [Who  has  closed  the  door.]  Sit  down, 
Granny — there,  close  against  the  fire,  do. 

[VASHTI  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  looking 
from  one  to  another. 

DORRY.    Sit  down,  Granny,  by  the  fire,  do. 

VASHTI.  "Tis  in  the  house  and  out  of  it  as  I  have 
went.  And  down  to  the  pool  where  the  ice  do  lie,  and 
up  on  the  fields  where  'tis  fog,  And  there  be  summat  in 
I  what  drives  I  onward,  as  might  the  wind.  And  no 
where  may  the  bones  of  me  rest  this  day. 

JANE.  If  'tis  to  talk  your  foolishness  as  you  be  come, 
you'd  best  have  stopped  away.  Here,  sit  you  down, 
Vashti  Reed,  and  behave  sensible,  and  maybe  as  I'll 
get  you  summat  warm  to  drink  presently. 

DORRY.     Yes,  Grannie,  sit  you  down  along  of  we. 

[VASHTI  sits  stiffly  down  by  the  hearth,  leaning 
on  her  stick.  JANE  resumes  her  place,  and 
DORRY  puts  her  little  stool  between  them. 

VASHTI.  And  in  the  night  when  I  was  laid  down, 
against  the  windowpane  it  fled  a  three  times.  A  three 
time  it  fled  and  did  beat  the  pane  as  though  'twould 
get  in.  And  I  up  and  did  open  the  window.  And  the 
air  it  ran  past  I,  and  'twas  black,  with  naught  upon 
it  but  the  smell  of  a  shroud.  So  I  knowed. 

DORRY.     What  did  you  know,  Granny  ? 

VASHTI.  [Leaning  forward  and  warming  her  hands 
at  the  fire,  speaking  as  though  to  herself.]  Summat  lost — 
summat  lost,  and  what  was  trying  to  get  safe  away. 

DORRY.    Safe  away  ?     From  what,  Granny  ? 

VASHTI.  And  there  be  one  what  walks  abroad  in  the 
night  time,  what  holds  in  the  hand  of  him  a  stick,  greater 
nor  this  staff  what  I  holds  here,  and  the  knife  to  it  be  as 
long  again  by  twice. 

DORRY.  O,  Granny,  I'll  be  a-feared  to  go  across  the 
garden  after  dark,  I  shall. 

JANE.    What  do  you  want  to  go  and  put  that  there 


16  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

into  the  child's  head  for  ?  I'd  like  for  Steve  to  hear  you 
talking  of  such  stuff. 

VASHTI.  I  sat  me  down  at  the  table,  but  the  victuals 
was  as  sand  in  the  mouth,  and  the  drink  did  put  but 
coldness  within  I.  And  when  the  door  was  closed, 
'twas  as  if  one  did  come  running  round  the  house  and 
did  beat  upon  it  for  to  be  let  in.  Then  I  did  go  for  to 
open  it,  but  the  place  outside  was  full  of  emptiness,  and 
'twas  they  old  carrion  crows  what  did  talk  to  I  out  of  the 
storm. 

JANE.  How  you  do  go  on,  to  be  sure  !  Why  don't 
you  speak  of  summat  what's  got  some  sense  to  it  ? 
Come,  don't  you  know  as  Steve,  his  wedding  day,  'tis 
to-morrow  as  ever  is. 

DORRY.  'Tis  the  New  Year,  too,  Granny,  as  well  as 
Dad's  marriage. 

VASHTI.  [Suddenly.]  Be  this  house  made  ready  for 
a-marrying,  then  ? 

DORRY.  Why,  of  course  it  be,  Granny.  Don't  you 
see  how  'tis  cleaned  and  the  new  net  curtains  in  the 
windows,  and  the  bit  of  drugget  'gainst  the  door  where 
the  old  one  always  tripped  me  up  ? 

VASHTI.  I  see  naught  but  what  'tis  more  like  a  burial 
here.  So  'tis.  And  'tis  a  burial  as  I've  carried  in  my 
heart  as  I  corned  down  from  the  hills. 

DORRY.  [Looking  out  of  the  window.]  Granny,  you'll 
be  forced  to  bide  the  night  along  of  we,  'cause  the  snow 
be  falling  thick,  and  'twill  be  likely  as  not  as  you'll  lose 
your  way  if  you  start  for  to  go  home  again  when  'tis 
snowing. 

JANE.  Th'  old  thing  may  as  well  bide  the  night  now 
she  be  come.  Hark  you,  Vashti,  'twill  save  you  the 
journey  down  to-morrow  like,  if  you  bides  the  night,  and 
the  chimney  corner  is  all  as  you  ever  wants. 

VASHTI.  And  what  should  I  be  journeying  down  to- 
morrow for,  Jane  Browning  ? 

DORRY.  Why,  Granny,  'tis  Dad's  wedding  day  to- 
morrow, and  'tis  a  white  frock  with  lace  to  it  as  I'm 
going  to  wear,  and  beads  what  Miss  Sims  gived  me,  and 


ACT  n  THE   NEW   YEAR  17 

the  shoes  what  was  new  except  for  being  worn  to  church 
three  times.  Shall  I  fetch  them  all  and  show  to  you, 
Granny  ? 

JANE.  Yes,  run  along  and  get  them,  Dorry  ;  very 
likely  'twill  give  her  thoughts  a  turn,  looking  at  the 
things,  seeing  as  she  be  in  one  of  her  nasty  moods  to-day 
when  you  can't  get  a  word  what  isn't  foolishness  out  of 
her.  [DORRY  runs  upstairs. 

VASHTI.  [Leaning  forward.']  Was  her  telling  of  a 
marriage  ? 

JANE.  Why,  yes,  Vashti  Reed.  And  you  know  all 
about  it,  only  you  don't  trouble  for  to  recollect  nothing 
but  what  you  dreams  of  yourself  in  the  night.  'Tis  our 
Steve  what's  going  to  marry  Annie  Sims  to-morrow. 

VASHTI.    Steve   Browning  ? 

JANE.  I  haven't  patience  with  th'  old  gipsy  !  Yes — 
Steve.  And  'tis  a  twelvemonth  or  more  as  you'd 
knowed  of  it. 

VASHTI.     Our  Steve,  what's  husband  to  my  May  ? 

JANE.  'Tis  a  fine  thing  to  fetch  up  May  this  evening, 
that  'tis.  May,  what  went  out  trolloping  along  the  roads 
'stead  of  she  biding  at  home  to  mind  the  house  and  child  ! 
'Tis  how  you  did  breed  she  up,  Vashti  Reed,  what  led 
her  to  act  as  her  did.  And  if  you'd  have  bred  her 
different,  'twould  have  been  all  the  same  ;  for  what's 
in  the  blood  is  bound  to  out  and  show  ;  and  when  you 
picks  a  weed  and  sets  it  in  the  room,  'tain't  no  flower 
as  you  must  look  for. 

VASHTI.  'Tis  summat  like  a  twelve  year  since  her 
went.  But  in  the  blinking  of  an  eye  the  latch  might  be 
raised,  and  she  come  through  the  door  again.  God 
bless  the  head  an  feet  of  she  ! 

JANE.  There  you  are,  Vashti,  talking  so  foolish. 
A  bad  herb  like  she,  was  bound  for  to  meet  her  doom. 
And  'twas  in  the  river  up  London  way  where  the  body 
of  her  was  catched,  floating,  and  the  same  petticoat  to 
it  as  I've  seed  on  May  a  score  of  times.  Don't  you 
recollect  how  'twas  parson  as  brought  the  news 
to  we  ? 


18  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

VASHTI.  'Taint  with  no  parsons  as  I  do  hold,  nor  with 
what  may  come  from  the  mouths  of  they,  neither. 

JANE.  And  Steve,  I  knowed  what  was  in  his  mind 
when  parson  was  gone  out.  'Twas  not  much  as  he  did 
say,  being  a  man  what  hasn't  many  words  to  his  tongue. 
But  he  took  and  fetched  down  his  big  coat  what  do  hang 
up  yonder,  and  told  I  to  put  a  bit  of  black  to  the  sleeve 
of  it.  Leastways,  he  didn't  speak  the  words,  but  I 
seed  what  he  was  after,  and  I  took  and  sewed  a  bit  on, 
and  he's  wore  it  ever  since  till  yesterday — And  that's 
eleven  year  ago  it  be — so  there. 

VASHTI.  Her  be  moving  about  upon  the  earth,  her 
be.  And  I  seems  to  feel  the  tread  of  she  at  night  time, 
and  by  day  as  well.  Her  bain't  shrouded,  nor  boxed, 
nor  no  churchyard  sod  above  the  limbs  of  she — you  take 
my  words — and  there  shall  come  a  day  when  the  latch 
shall  rise  and  her  be  standing  among  us  and  a-calling 
on  her  child  and  husband  what's  forgotten  she. 

JANE.  For  goodness  sake,  Vashti,  have  done  speaking 
about  such  things  to-night.  If  Steve  was  to  hear  you, 
why  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was  to  put  you  out  of  the 
door  and  into  the  snow— and  'tis  most  unfitting  for  to 
talk  so  afore  the  child. 

VASHTI.  [Calling  out  loudly.]  Come  back  to  I,  May 
— you  come  back  to  I — there  bain't  no  one  what  thinks 
on  the  name  of  you,  or  what  wants  you  but  your  old 
mother.  You  come  back  to  I ! 

JANE.  I'll  thank  you  for  to  shut  your  mouth,  old 
Vashti !  'Tain't  nothing  to  be  proud  on  as  you've  got, 
and  'twould  be  better  if  you  was  to  be  less  free  in  your 
hollering.  Look,  here's  Dorry  coming. 

[DoRRY  comes  into  the  kitchen  ;   she  is  wearing 

her  new  white  frock. 

DORRY.  See,  Granny,  I've  been  and  put  it  on  for  to 
show  you  better.  See  the  lace  ?  Isn't  it  nice  ?  And 
the  beads,  too.  I  didn't  stop  for  to  put  on  my  shoes, 
nor  my  new  stockings.  Nor  my  hat,  what's  got  a  great 
long  feather  all  round  of  it. 

JANE.    You  bad,  naughty  girl,  Dorry,  you'll  crease 


ACT  n  THE   NEW   YEAR  19 

and  tumble  that  frock  so  as  it's  not  fit  to  be  seen  to- 
morrow !     Whatever  did  you  go  to  put  it  on  for  ? 

DORRY.  So  as  that  Gran  should  see  something  pretty, 
and  so  as  she  should  come  out  of  her  trouble.  Gran's 
always  got  some  trouble  in  her  mind,  han't  you, 
Granny  ? 

VASHTI.     A  twelve  year  gone  by,  my  child. 

JANE.     I'll  give  it  you  if  you  starts  off  again. 

VASHTI.     A  twelve  year  gone  by — 

DORRY.  A  twelve  year  gone  by,  what  then, 
Granny  ? 

VASHTI.  'Tis  more'n  eleven  years  since  her  wented 
out  of  the  door,  my  child — your  poor  mammy.  Out  of 
the  door,  out  of  the  door  !  And  likely  as  not  'twill  be 
feet  first  as  her  shall  be  brought  in  again. 

DORRY.     Granny,  was  my  poor  mammy,  what's  dead 
nice  looking  like  Miss  Sims  as  is  going  for  to  marry  Dad, 
to-morrow  ? 

VASHTI.  'Twas  grand  as  a  tree  in  full  leaf  and  the 
wind  a-moving  all  the  green  of  it  as  was  your  mammy, 
my  dear. 

DORRY.  And  did  she  have  fine  things  to  her,  nice 
gowns  and  things,  like  Miss  Sims,  Granny  ? 

JANE.  'Twas  the  looks  of  her  and  the  love  of  finery 
and  pleasuring  what  was  her  undoing,  as  'twill  be  the  un- 
doing of  you,  too,  Dorry,  if  you  don't  take  care.  'Tis 
she  as  you  favours,  and  none  of  your  father's  people, 
more's  the  pity,  and'tis  more  thoughtful  and  serious 
as  you'll  have  to  grow  if  you  don't  want  to  come  to 
harm.  You  take  and  go  right  up,  and  off  with  that 
frock,  do  you  hear  me  ? 

DORRY.  O,  I  wanted  to  be  let  to  go  to  the  dancing 
now  I'd  got  it  on,  I  did. 

JANE.  Dancing,  there  you  are  !  Dancing  and  finery, 
'tis  all  as  you  do  think  on,  and  'tis  plain  to  see  what's 
got  working  in  the  inside  of  you,  Dorry.  'Tis  the  drop 
of  bad  blood  as  you  has  got  from  she  what  bore  you. 
But  I  might  as  well  speak  to  that  door  for  all  you  cares. 
Only,  hark  you  here,  you'll  be  sorry  one  of  these  days 


20  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

as  you  han't  minded  me  better.     And  then  'twill  be  too 
late. 

[STEVE  comes  down  the  stairs,  pushes  open  the 
door  and  enters. 

STEVE.  Well,  Mother,  what's  up  now  ?  Gran, 
you  here  ?  Why,  Dorry,  what  be  you  a-crying 
for? 

DORRY.  I  wants  to  be  let  to  go  to  the  dancing,  Dad 
— now  that  I've  got  my  frock  on  and  all. — O,  I  wants 
to  be  let  to  go. 

STEVE.  Well,  Mother — what  do  you  say  ?  'Twouldn't 
hurt  for  she  to  look  in  about  half  an  hour,  and  Annie  and 
me  we  could  bring  her  back  betimes. 

DORRY.  O,  Dad,  I  wants  to  go  if  'twas  only  for  a 
minute. 

STEVE.  There,  there — you  shall  go  and  we'll  say  no 
more  about  it. 

JANE.  I  never  knowed  you  give  in  to  her  so  foolish 
like  this  afore,  Steve. 

STEVE.  Well,  Mother,  'tain't  every  day  as  a  man's 
married,  that  'tain't. 

VASHTI.  And  so  you're  to  be  wed  come  to-morrow, 
Steve  ?  They  tells  me  as  you're  to  be  wed. 

STEVE.    That's  right  enough,  Gran. 

VASHTI.  [Rising.]  And  there  be  no  resting  in  me 
to-day,  Steve.  There  be  summat  as  burns  quick  in  the 
bones  of  my  body  and  that  will  not  let  me  bide. — And 
'tis  steps  as  I  hears  on  the  roadside  and  in  the  fields — 
and  'tis  a  bad  taste  as  is  in  my  victuals,  and  I  must  be 
moving,  and  peering  about,  and  a-taking  cold  water  into 
my  mouth  for  to  do  away  with  the  thing  on  my  tongue, 
which  is  as  the  smell  of  death— So  'tis. 

JANE.  Now  she's  off  again  !  Come,  sit  you  down, 
Vashti  Reed,  and  I'll  give  you  summat  as'll  very  likely 
warm  you  and  keep  you  quiet  in  your  chair  a  while. 
Just  you  wait  till  I  gets  the  water  boiling. 

[She  begins  to  stir  up  the  fire  and  sets  a  kettle  on  it. 

DORRY.  [From  the  window.]  Here's  Miss  Sims 
coming  up  the  path,  and  Rosie  too.  0,  they're  wrapped 


ACT  n  THE   NEW   YEAR  21 

up  all  over  'cause  'tis  snowing.     I'll  open,  I'll  open. 

[She  runs  to  the  door  and  unlatches  it.  ANNIE 
and  ROSE  SIMS  come  in,  shaking  the  snow 
from  them  and  unbuttoning  their  cloaks, 
which  STEVE  takes  from  them  and  hangs  on 
the  door. 


ACT  II.— Scene  2. 

ANNIE.  [As  STEVE  takes  off  her  cloak.}  Tis  going  to 
be  a  dreadful  night.  The  snow's  coming  down  something 
cruel. 

ROSE.  There  won't  be  many  to  the  dance  if  it  keeps 
on  like  this,  will  there  ? 

STEVE.  Get  you  to  the  fire,  both  of  you,  and  warm 
yourselves  before  we  sets  out  again. 

DORRY.  Miss  Sims,  Miss  Sims — Miss  Rosie — I'm 
going  along  with  you  to  the  dance,  Dad  says  as  I 
may. 

JANE.  Bless  the  child  !  However  her  has  worked 
upon  her  father,  and  he  so  strict,  I  don't  know. 

ANNIE.  Well,  you  be  got  up  fine  and  grand,  Dorry — I 
shouldn't  hardly  know  'twas  you.  [Turning  to  VASHTI 
REED.]  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Reed,  my  eyes  was  very 
near  blinded  when  I  first  got  in  out  of  the  dark,  and  I 
didn't  see  as  you  was  there. 

ROSE.  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Reed,  and  how  be  you 
keeping  this  cold  weather  ? 

VASHTI.  [Peering  into  their  faces  as  they  stand  near 
her.]  What  be  you  a-telling  I  of  ? 

ANNIE.  We  was  saying,  how  be  you  in  this  sharp 
weather,  Mrs.  Reed  ? 

VASHTI.    How  be  I  ? 

^RosE.    Yes,  Mrs.  Reed,  how  be  you  a-keeping  now 
'tis  come  over  such  nasty  weather  ? 


22  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

VASHTI.  And  how  should  an  old  woman  be,  and  her 
one  child  out  in  the  rain  and  all  the  wind,  and  driv' 
there  too  by  them  as  was  laid  like  snakes  in  the  grass 
about  the  feet  of  she,  ready  for  to  overthrow  she  when 
her  should  have  gotten  to  a  time  of  weakness. 

JANE.  Take  no  account  of  what  she  do  say,  girls,  but 
sit  you  down  in  the  warm  and  bide  till  I  gets  the  time  to 
take  and  look  on  the  clothes  which  you  have  upon  you. 
[Moving  about  and  putting  tea  things  on  the  table.]  I  be 
but  just  a-going  to  make  a  cup  of  tea  for  th'  old 
woman,  with  a  drop  of  summat  strong  to  it  as  will 
keep  her  from  using  of  her  tongue  so  free  till  morning 
time. 

ANNIE.  [Sitting  down.]  Poor  old  woman,  'tis  a  sad 
thing  when  folks  do  come  to  such  a  pass  as  she. 

ROSE.  And  han't  got  their  proper  sense  to  them,  nor 
nothing.  But  she's  better  off  nor  a  poor  creature  what 
we  saw  crouching  below  the  hedge  as  we  was  coming 
across  the  meadow.  "  Why,"  I  says  to  Annie,  "  it 
must  be  bad  to  have  no  home  to  bide  in  such  a  night 
as  this  !  "  Isn't  that  so,  Mrs.  Browning  ? 

STEVE.     Ah,  you're  right  there,  you're  right. 

ROSE.  I  wouldn't  much  care  to  be  upon  the  road 
to-night,  would  you,  Steve  ? 

VASHTI.  And  at  that  hour  when  th'  old  year  be  pass- 
ing out,  and  dark  on  all  the  land,  the  graves  shall  open 
and  give  up  the  dead  which  be  in  they.  And,  standing 
in  the  churchyard  you  may  read  the  face  to  each,  as  the 
corpses  do  go  by.  There's  many  a  night  as  I  have  stood 
and  have  looked  into  they  when  them  did  draw  near  to  I, 
but  never  the  face  I  did  seek. 

[Here  JANE,  who  has  been  making  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  who  has  poured  something  in  it  from  a 
bottle,  advances  to  VASHTI. 

JANE.  Here,  Vashti  Reed,  here's  a  nice  cup  of  hot 
tea  for  you.  Take  and  drink  it  up  and  very  likely  'twill 
warm  th'  inside  of  you,  for  I'll  lay  as  you  haven't  seen  a 
mouthful  of  naught  this  day. 

STEVE.    Ah,  that's  it,  that's  it.    When  folks  do  go 


ACT  ii  THE   NEW   YEAR  23 

leer  'tis  a  powerful  lot  of  fancies  as  do  get  from  the 
stomach  to  the  heads  of  they. 

[VASHTI  takes  the  cup  and  slowly  drinks. 

DORRY.  0,  Miss  Sims,  you  do  look  nice.  Look, 
Gran'ma,  at  what  Miss  Sims  have  got  on  ! 

VASHTI.  {Putting  down  her  cup  and  leaning  forward, ,] 
Which  of  you  be  clothed  for  marriage  ? 

JANE.  Get  along  of  you,  Gran,  'tis  for  the  dance  up 
at  the  school  as  they  be  come. 

VASHTI.  Come  you  here — her  what's  to  wed  our 
Steve.  Come  you  here  and  let  I  look  at  you.  My  eyes 
bain't  so  quick  as  they  was  once.  Many  tears  have 
clouded  they.  But  come  you  here. 

DORRY.  Go  along  to  her,  Miss  Sims,  Granny  wants  to 
look  at  your  nice  things. 

ANNIE.  [Steps  in  front  of  VASHTI.]  Here  I  be,  Mrs. 
Reed. 

VASHTI.  Be  you  the  one  what's  going  to  wed  our 
Steve  come  New  Year. 

ANNIE.    That's  it,  Mrs.  Reed,  that's  it. 

VASHTI.  And  be  these  garments  which  you  be  clothed 
in  for  marriage  or  for  burial  ? 

STEVE.  Come,  Granny,  have  another  cup  of  tea. 
Annie,  don't  you  take  no  account  of  she.  'Tis  worry 
and  that  as  have  caused  the  mind  of  she  to  wander  a  bit, 
but  she  don't  mean  nothing  by  it. 

ANNIE.  All  right,  Steve.  She  don't  trouble  me  at  all. 
[To  VASHTI.]  'Tis  to  be  hoped  as  I  shall  make  a  good 
wife  to  Steve,  Mrs.  Reed. 

VASHTI.  Steve  !  What  do  Steve  want  with  another 
wife  ?  Han't  he  got  one  already  which  is  as  a  rose  among 
the  sow-thistles.  What  do  Steve  want  for  with  a  new 
one  then  ? 

STEVE.  Come  on,  girls.  I  can't  stand  no  more  of 
this.  Let's  off,  and  call  in  to  George's  as  we  do  go  by. 

ROSE  .  We  did  meet  Mr .  Davis  as  we  was  coming  along 
and  he  said  as  how  't wouldn't  be  many  minutes  afore  he 
joined  us  here,  Steve. 

STEVE.    That's  right,  then  we'll  bide  a  bit  longer  till 


24  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

George  do  call  for  we,  only  'tis  more  nor  I  can  stand  when 
th'  old  lady  gets  her  tongue  moving. 

DORRY.  Why,  look,  Gran's  fell  asleep !  0,  Miss 
Sims,  now  that  Gran's  dropped  off  and  can't  say  none 
of  her  foolish  things  any  more,  do  stand  so  as  Dad  and 
Gran'ma  can  see  the  frock  which  you've  got  for  the  dance. 

ANNIE.  0,  Dorry,  you're  a  little  torment,  that's  the 
truth. 

[She  gets  up  and  turns  slowly  round  so  that  all 
can  see  what  she  has  on. 

ROSE.    WeU,  Steve  ? 

STEVE.    Well,  Rosie. 

ROSE.  Haven't  you  got  nothing  as  you  can  say, 
Steve  ? 

STEVE.    What  be  I  to  say,  Rose  ? 

ROSE.  Well,  something  of  how  you  thinks  she  looks, 
of  course. 

STEVE.    0,  'tis  all  right,  I  suppose. 

ROSE.  All  right !  And  is  that  about  all  as  you've 
seen  ?  Why,  bless  you,  Steve,  where  have  you  gone 
and  hid  your  tongue  I  should  like  to  know  ! 

STEVE.    Well,  there  bain't  nothing  wrong,  be  there  ? 

ROSE.  Of  course  there  isn't.  But  I  never  did  see 
such  a  man  as  you,  Steve.  Why,  I  don't  believe  as  you'd 
know  whether  Annie  haves  a  pair  of  eyes  to  her  face  or 
not,  nor  if  they  be  the  same  colour  one  to  t'other. 

STEVE.  I  sees  enough  for  me.  I  sees  as  Annie  is  the 
girl  as  I've  picked  out  of  the  whole  world.  And  I  know 
that  to-morrow  she  and  I  is  to  be  made  man  and  wife. 
And  that  be  pretty  nigh  enough  for  me  this  night,  I 
reckon. 

DORRY.  O,  Miss  Sims,  do  you  hear  what  Dad  is 
saying  ?  0,  I  wonder  what  I  should  feel  if  'twas  me 
that  was  going  to  be  married  ! 

ROSE.  You  get  and  ask  Annie  how  'tis  with  her, 
Dorry.  I  could  tell  a  fine  tale  of  how  as  she  do  lie 
tossing  half  the  nights,  and  of  the  candles  that's  burned 
right  down  to  the  very  end  of  them,  I  could. 

ANNIE.    Don't  you  go  for  to  listen  to  her,  Dorry,  nor 


ACT  ii  THE   NEW   YEAR  25 

Steve,  neither.  She's  that  flustered  herself  about  the 
dance  to-night  that  she  scarce  do  know  what  she's  a- 
saying  of.  But  suppose  you  was  just  to  ask  her  what 
she's  got  wrapped  so  careful  in  that  there  paper  in  her 
hand. 

DOBBY.     0,  Rosie,  whatever  is  it  ? 

STEVE.    What's  that  you've  got  hold  on  now,  Rosie  ? 

ANNIE.    Come,  show  them  all,  Rose. 

[ROSE  slowly  unfolds  the  paper  and  shows  them 
all  a  hothouse  carnation  and  a  fern. 

ROSE.    There  'tis,  then. 

DORBY.  0  my,  Rosie — isn't  it  beautiful.  Be  you 
going  to  wear  it  to  the  dance  ? 

ROSE.    No,  Dorry,  'tisn't  for  me. 

ANNIE.     You  just  ask  her  for  whom  it  is,  then,  Dorry. 

DOBBY.     0,  who  is  it  for,  Rosie — who  is  it  for  ? 

ROSE.    No — I'm  not  a-going  to  tell  none  of  you. 

[She  wraps  it  up  carefully  again. 

ANNIE.    I'll  tell  then,  for  you. 

ROSE.    No,  you  shan't,  Annie — that  you  shan't ! 

ANNIE.  That  I  shall,  then — come  you  here,  Dorry — 
I'll  whisper  it  to  your  ear.  [Whispers  it  to  DOEBY. 

DOBBY.  [Excitedly.]  I  know  who  'tis — I  know — 
'tis  for  Mr.  Davis — for  Mr.  Davis  !  Think  of  that,  Dad 
— the  flower  'tis  for  George  Davis. 

ROSIE.     0,  Annie,  how  you  could  ! 

STEVE.    George 

VASHTI.  [Suddenly  roused.]  Who  named  George  ? 
There  was  but  one  man  as  was  called  by  that  name — 
and  he  courted  my  girl  till  her  was  faint  and  weary  of  the 
sound  and  shape  of  he,  and  so  on  a  day  when  he  was 
come 

DOBBY.    There's  Gran  gone  off  on  her  tales  again. 

[JANE  crosses  the  hearth  and  puts  a  shawl  over 
the  head  of  VASHTI,  who  relapses  again  into 
sleep. 

STEVE.  [Sitting  down  by  ROSIE.]  What's  this, 
Rose  ?  I  han't  heard  tell  of  this  afore.  Be  there 
aught  a-going  on  with  you  and  George,  then  ? 


26  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

ROSE.  No,  Steve,  there  isn't  nothing  in  it  much, 
except  that  George  and  me  we  walked  out  last  Sunday 
in  the  evening  like — and  a  two  or  three  time  before. 

STEVE.  And  is  it  that  you  be  a-keeping  of  that 
flower  for  to  give  to  George,  then  ? 

ROSE.  Well — 'tis  for  George  as  I've  saved  it  out  of 
some  what  the  gardener  up  at  Squire's  gived  me. 

STEVE.  [As  though  to  himself.]  'Tis  a  powerful  many 
years  since  George  he  went  a-courting.  I  never  knowed 
him  so  much  as  look  upon  a  maid,  I  didn't  since — 

ROSE.  Well,  Steve,  I'm  sure  there's  no  need  for  you 
to  be  upset  over  it.  'Tis  nothing  to  you  who  George 
walks  out  with,  or  who  he  doesn't. 

STEVE.    Who  said  as  I  was  upset,  Rose  ? 

ROSE.  Look  at  the  long  face  what  you've  pulled. 
Annie,  if  'twas  me,  I  shouldn't  much  care  about  marrying 
a  man  with  such  a  look  to  him. 

ANNIE.  What's  ups  Steve  ?  What's  come  over  you 
like,  all  of  a  minute  ? 

STEVE.  'Tis  naught,  Annie,  naught.  'Twas  summat 
of  past  times  what  corned  into  the  thoughts  of  me.  But 
'tis  naught.  And,  Rose,  if  so  be  as  'twas  you  as  George 
is  after,  I'd  wish  him  to  have  luck,  with  all  my  heart, 
I  would,  for  George  and  me — well,  we  too  has  always 
stuck  close  one  to  t'other,  as  you  knows. 

JANE.  Ah — that  you  has,  George  and  you — you  and 
George. 

ANNIE.     Hark — there's  someone  coming  up  now. 

DOBBY.     O,  let  me  open  the  door — let  me  open  it ! 

[She  runs  across  the  room  and  lifts  the  latch. 
GEOBGE  stands  in  the  doorway  shaking 
the  snow  from  him.  Then  he  comes  into 
the  room. 

DOBBY.  I'm  going  to  the  dance,  Mr.  Davis.  Look, 
haven't  I  got  a  nice  frock  on  ? 

STEVE.  Good  evening,  George,  and  how  be  you 
to-night  ? 

GEOBGE.  Nicely,  Steve,  nicely.  Good  evening,  Mrs. 
Browning.  Miss  Sims,  good  evening — Yes,  Steve,  I'll 


ACT  n  THE   NEW    YEAR  27 

off  with  my  coat,  for  'tis  pretty  well  sprinkled  with 
snow,  like. 

[STEVE  helps  GEORGE  to  take  off  his  overcoat. 

ROSE.    A  happy  New  Year  to  you,  Mr.  Davis. 

JANE.  And  that's  a  thing  which  han't  no  luck  to  it, 
if  'tis  said  afore  the  proper  time,  Rosie. 

ROSE.    Well,  but  'tis  New  Year's  Eve,  isn't  it  ? 

GEORGE.  Ah,  so  'tis — and  a  terrible  nasty  storm  as 
ever  I  knowed  !  'Twas  corned  up  very  nigh  to  my 
knees,  the  snow,  as  I  was  a-crossing  of  the  meadow.  And 
there  lay  some  poor  thing  sheltering  below  the  hedge, 
with  a  bit  of  sacking  throwed  over  her.  I  count  'tis  very 
near  buried  alive  as  anyone  would  be  as  slept  out  in 
such  a  night. 

STEVE.  I  reckon  'twould  be  so — so  'twould.  But 
come  you  in  and  give  yourself  a  warm ;  and  Mother,  what 
do  you  say  to  getting  us  a  glass  of  cider  all  round  afore 
we  sets  out  to  the  dancing. 

JANE.  What  do  you  want  to  be  taking  drinks 
here  for,  when  'tis  free  as  you'll  get  them  up  at  the 
school  ? 

STEVE  Just  a  drop  for  to  warm  we  through.  Here, 
I'll  fetch  it  right  away. 

JANE.  No,  you  don't.  I'll  have  no  one  meddling  in 
the  pantry  save  it's  myself.  Dorry,  give  me  that  there 

jug- 

DORRY.  [Taking  a  jug  from  the  dresser.]  Here  'tis, 
Gran'ma,  shall  I  light  the  candle  ? 

JANE.    So  long  as  you'll  hold  the  matches  careful. 

ANNIE.  Well — 'tis  to  be  hoped  as  the  weather '11 
change  afore  morning. 

ROSE.    We  shall  want  a  bit  of  sunshine  for  the  bride. 

GEORGE.  That  us  shall,  but  it  don't  look  much  as 
though  we  should  get  it. 

[JANE  BROWNING  and  DORRY  go  out  of  the  room. 

STEVE.  Sit  you  down,  George,  along  of  we.  'Tis 
right  pleased  as  I  be  for  to  see  you  here  to-night. 

GEORGE.  Well,  Steve,  I  bain't  one  for  a  lot  of  words 
but  I  be  powerful  glad  to  see  you  look  as  you  does,  and 


28  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

'tis  all  joy  as  I  wishes  you  and  her  what's  to  be  your  wife, 
to-morrow. 

ANNIE.  Thank  you  kindly,  Mr.  Davis.  I  shall  do 
my  best  for  Steve,  and  a  girl  can't  do  no  more,  can  she  ? 

ROSE.  And  so  you're  going  to  church  along  of  Steve, 
Mr.  Davis  ? 

GEORGE.  'Tis  as  Steve  do  wish,  but  I  be  summat 
after  a  cow  what  has  broke  into  the  flower  gardens,  places 
where  there  be  many  folk  got  together  and  I  among 
they. 

ROSE.     0,  come,  Mr.  Davis  ! 

GEORGE.  'Tis  with  me  as  though  t'were  all  hoof  and 
horn  as  I  was  made  of.  But  Steve,  he  be  more  used  to 
mixing  up  with  the  quality  folks  and  such  things,  and 
he  do  know  better  nor  I  how  to  carry  his  self  in  parts 
when  the  ground  be  thick  on  them. 

ANNIE.  Very  likely  'tis  a-shewing  of  them  into  their 
places  of  a  Sunday  and  a-ringing  of  the  bell  and  a-help- 
ing  of  the  vicar  along  with  the  service,  like,  as  has  made 
Steve  so  easy. 

ROSIE.  But,  bless  you,  Mr.  Davis,  you  sees  a  good  bit 
of  the  gentry,  too,  in  your  way,  when  you  goes  in  to 
houses,  as  it  might  be  the  Squire's  for  to  put  up  a  shelf, 
or  mend  a  window,  and  I  don't  know  what. 

GEORGE.  Ah,  them  caddling  sort  of  jobs  don't  much 
agree  with  I,  Miss  Rose.  And  when  I  gets  inside  one 
of  they  great  houses,  where  the  maids  do  pad  about  in 
boots  what  you  can't  hear,  and  do  speak  as  though 
'twere  church  and  parson  at  his  sermon,  I  can't  think 
of  naught  but  how  'twill  feel  for  to  be  out  in  the  open 
again.  Why,  bless  you,  I  do  scarce  fetch  my  breath  in 
one  of  they  places  from  fear  as  there  should  be  too  much 
sound  to  it,  and  the  noise  of  my  own  hammer  do  very 
near  scare  I  into  fits. 

ROSE.  Well,  Mr.  Davis,  who  would  ever  have 
thought  it  ? 

[Mas.  BROWNING  and  DORRY  come  back  and 
the  cider  is  put  upon  the  table,  DORRY  and 
ANNIE  getting  glasses  from  the  dresser. 


ACT  ii  THE   NEW   YEAR  29 

GEORGE .  [Drinking.]  Your  health,  Steve,  and  yours, 
too,  Miss  Sims.  And  many  years  of  happiness  to  you 
both. 

STEVE.     Thank  you  kindly,  George. 

ANNIE.     Thank  you,  Mr.  Davis. 

DORRY.  Hasn't  Miss  Sims  got  a  nice  frock  on  her 
for  the  dance,  Mr.  Davis  ? 

GEORGE.  Well,  I'm  blessed  if  I'd  taken  no  notice  of 
it,  Dorry. 

DORRY.  Why,  you're  worse  nor  Dad,  I  do  declare  ! 
But  you  just  look  at  Rosie,  now,  Mr.  Davis,  and  ask  her 
what  she's  got  wrapped  up  in  that  there  paper  in  her 
hand. 

ROSE.     0,  Dorry,  you  little  tease,  you  ! 

DORRY.     You  just  ask  her,  Mr.  Davis. 

ROSE.  [Undoing  the  parcel.]  There,  'tis  nothing  to 
make  such  a  commotion  of  !  Just  a  flower- — see,  Mr. 
Davis  ?  I  knowed  as  it  was  one  what  you  was  partial  to, 
and  so  I  just  brought  it  along  with  me. 

GEORGE.    That  there  bain't  for  I,  be  it  ? 

ROSE.     Indeed  'tis — if  so  as  you'll  accept  of  it. 

GEORGE.  0,  'tis  best  saved  against  to-morrow.  The 
freshness  will  be  most  gone  from  it,  if  I  was  to  wear  it 
now. 

DORRY.  No,  no,  Mr.  Davis,  'tis  for  now  !  To  wear 
at  the  dance.  Put  it  on  him,  Rosie,  put  it  on  him. 

ROSE.  [Tossing  the  flower  across  the  table  to  GEORGE.] 
He  can  put  it  on  hisself  well  enough,  Dorry. 

GEORGE.  [After  a  moment's  hesitation.]  I  don't 
know  so  well  about  that. 

ANNIE.  Go  on,  Rosie — pin  it  into  his  coat.  Come, 
'tis  getting  late. 

DORRY.  0,  pin  it  in  quick,  Rosie — come  along — and 
then  we  can  start  to  the  dancing. 

ROSE.     Shall  I,  Mr.  Davis  ? 

[GEORGE  gets  up  and  crosses  the  room  ;  ROSE 
takes  the  flower  and  DORRY  hands  her  a 
pin.  She  slowly  pins  the  flower  in  his 
coat. 


30  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

STEVE.  [Stretching  out  his  hand  to  ANNIE.]  You  be 
so  quiet  like  to-night,  Annie.  There  isn't  nothing  wrong, 
is  there,  my  dear  ? 

ANNIE.  'Tis  only  I'm  that  full  of  gladness,  Steve,  as 
I  don't  seem  to  find  words  to  my  tongue  for  the  things 
what  I  can  talk  on  most  days. 

STEVE.  And  that's  how  'tis  with  I,  too,  Annie.  'Tis 
as  though  I  was  out  in  the  meadows,  like — And  as  though 
'twere  Sunday,  and  such  a  stillness  all  around  that  I 
might  think  'twas  only  me  as  was  upon  the  earth.  But 
then  summat  stirs  in  me  sudden  and  I  knows  that  you  be 
there,  too,  and  'tis  my  love  for  you  what  has  put  me 
right  away  from  the  rest  of  them. 

ANNIE.  Steve,  you've  had  a  poor,  rough  time,  I 
know,  but  I'll  do  my  best  for  to  smooth  it  like  for  you,  I 
will. 

STEVE.  See  here,  Annie — I  be  corned  out  of  the  rain 
and  into  the  sun  once  more. 

DORRY.  [Leading  GEORGE  forward.]  See  how  fine 
Mr.  Davis  do  look — see,  isn't  he  grand  ?  O,  Miss  Sims, 
see  how  nice  the  flower  do  look  what  Rosie  has  pinned 
in  his  coat !  See,  Gran'ma. 

JANE.  I've  enough  to  do  putting  away  all  these 
glasses  which  have  been  messed  up.  What  I  wants 
to  know  is  when  I  shall  get  off  to  bed  this  night, 
seeing  as  'tis  late  already  and  you  none  of  you  gone 
off  yet. 

DORRY.  O,  let  us  be  off,  let  us  be  off — and  what  am  I 
to  put  over  my  dress,  Gran'ma,  so  as  the  snow  shan't  get 
to  it? 

JANE.  If  you  go  careful  and  don't  drop  it  in  the  snow 
may  be  as  I'll  wrap  my  big  shawl  around  of  you,  Dorry, 
what's  hanging  behind  the  door. 

ROSE.  Give  me  my  cloak,  Steve — 0,  how  I  do  love 
a  bit  of  dancing,  don't  you,  Mr.  Davis  ? 

GEORGE.     I  be  about  as  much  use  in  the  ball  room  as 
one  of  they  great  drag  horses,  Miss  Rose. 
fISRosE.     0,  get  on,  Mr.  Davis!     I  don't  believe  half 
what  you  do  say,  no  more  does  Annie. 


ACT  n  THE    NEW    YEAR  31 

ANNIE.  If  Mr.  Davis  don't  know  how  to  dance  right, 
you're  the  one  to  learn  him,  Rose.  Come,  Dorry, 
you  take  hold  of  my  hand,  and  I'll  look  after  you 
on  the  way.  Good-night,  Mrs.  Browning.  Good-night, 
Mrs.  Reed. 

DORRY.  Why,  Granny's  sound  asleep,  Miss  Sims, 
you  know. 

JANE.  And  about  time^  too.  "Tis  to  be  hoped  as  we 
shan't  have  no  more  trouble  with  her  till  morning. 

DORRY.  [Her  eyes  raised  to  the  door  latch.]  Just  look, 
why  the  latch  is  up. 

ANNIE.     Whoever 's  that,  I  wonder? 
ROSE.     'Tis  very  likely  someone  with  a  horse  what's 
lost  a  shoe,  Steve. 

JANE.  I  guess  as  'tis  a  coffin  wanted  sudden,  George 
Davis. 

STEVE.  I  bain't  a-going  to  shoe  no  horses  this  time  of 
night,  not  if  'twas  the  King  hisself  what  stood  at  the 
door. 

GEORGE.  If  'tis  a  corpse,  I  guess  her '11  have  to  wait 
till  the  dancing's  finished,  then. 

[VASHTI  groans  in  her  sleep  and  turns  over  in 

the  chair,  her  face  to  the  fire. 

STEVE.  [Going  to  the  door  and  speaking  loudly.] 
Who's  there  ? 

GEORGE.    Us'll  soon  see. 

[GEORGE  unbolts  the  door  and  opens  it,  first  a 
little  way,  and  then  wide.  MAY  is  seen 
standing  in  the  doorway.  Her  shawl  is 
drawn  over  head  and  the  lower  part  of  her 
face. 

GEORGE.  Here's  someone  what's  missed  their  way,  I 
count. 

ROSE.  Why,  'tis  like  the  poor  thing  we  seed  beneath 
the  hedge,  I  do  believe. 

ANNIE  Whatever  can  she  want  a-coming  in  here  at 
this  time  of  night ! 

JANE.  [Advancing  firmly.]  'Tis  one  of  they  dirty 
roadsters  what  there's  too  many  of,  all  about  the  country. 


32  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

Here,  I'll  learn  you  to  come  to  folks'  houses  this  time  of 
night,  disturbing  of  a  wedding  party.  You  take  and  get 
gone.  We  don't  want  such  as  you  in  here,  we  don't. 

[MAY  looks  fixedly  into  JANE'S  face, 
GEORGE.     I  count  'tis  very  nigh  starved  by  the  cold  as 
she  be. 

.STEVE.  Looks  like  it,  and  wetted  through  to  the 
bone. 

JANE.  Put  her  out  and  shut  the  door,  George,  and 
that'll  learn  the  likes  of  she  to  come  round  begging  at 
folks'  houses  what's  respectable. 

GEORGE.  'Tis  poor  work  shutting  the  door  on  such 
as  her  this  night. 

STEVE.  And  that  'tis,  George,  and  what's  more,  I 
bain't  a-going  for  to  do  it.  'Tis  but  a  few  hours  to  my 
wedding,  and  if  a  dog  was  to  come  to  me  for  shelter  I'd 
not  be  one  to  put  him  from  the  door. 

JANE.  'Tain't  to  be  expected  as  I  shall  let  a  dirty 
tramp  bide  in  my  kitchen  when  'tis  all  cleaned  up 
against  to-morrow,  Steve. 

STEVE.  To-morrow,  'tis  my  day,  Mother,  and  I'll 
have  the  choosing  of  my  guests,  like.  [Turning  to  MAY.] 
Come  you  in  out  of  the  cold.  This  night  you  shall  bide 
fed  and  warmed,  so  that,  may  be,  in  years  to  come, 
'twill  please  you  to  think  back  upon  the  eve  afore 
my  wedding. 

[STEVE  stands  back,  holding  the  door  wide  open. 
MAY,  from  the  threshold,  has  been  looking 
first  on  one  face  and  then  on  another. 
Suddenly  her  eyes  fall  on  ANNIE,  who  has 
moved  to  STEVE'S  side,  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  with  a  sudden  defiance,  she  draws 
herself  up  and  comes  boldly  into  the  room  as 
the  curtain  falls . 


ACT  ii  THE   NEW   YEAR  33 


ACT  II.— Scene  3. 

The  same  room,  two  hours  later.  VASHTI  REED  seems  to 
be  sleeping  as  before  by  the  fireside.  On  the  settle 
MAY  is  huddled,  her  head  bent,  the  shawl  drawn  over 
her  face.  JANE  BROWNING  moves  about,  putting 
away  work  things,  cups  and  plates,  seeing  that  the 
window  is  closed,  winding  the  clock,  etc.  There  is  a 
tap  at  the  outer  door  and  JANE  opens  it.  STEVE, 
ANNIE  and  DORRY  enter. 

JANE.  Whatever  kept  you  so  late,  Steve,  and  me 
a-sitting  up  for  to  let  you  all  in  and  not  able  to  get  away 
to  my  bed  ? 

DORRY.  0,  Gran'ma,  it  was  beautiful,  I  could  have 
stopped  all  night,  I  could.  We  corned  away  early 
'cause  Miss  Sims,  she  said  as  the  dancing  gived  her  the 
headache,  but  the  New  Year  han't  been  danced  in  yet,  it 
han't. 

JANE.  You  get  and  dance  off  to  bed,  Dorry,  that's 
what  you've  got  to  do — and  quickly. 

DORRY.  All  right,  Gran'ma.  Good-night,  Miss  Sims  ; 
good-night,  Dad.  0,  why,  there's  Granny  !  But  her's 
tight  asleep  so  I  shan't  say  nothing  to  her.  0, 1  do  wish 
as  there  was  dancing,  and  lamps,  and  music  playing 
every  night,  I  do  ! 

[DoRRY   goes   towards   the  staircase  door. 

JANE.  [Galling  after  her.]  I'm  a-coming  along  directly. 
Be  careful  with  the  candle,  Dorry. 

[JANE  opens  the  door  and  DORRY  goes  upstairs. 
STEVE  and  ANNIE  come  towards  the  fire- 
place. 

STEVE.  Was  there  aught  as  you  could  do  for  yonder 
poor  thing  ? 

JANE.  Poor  thing,  indeed !  A  good-for-nothing 
roadster  what's  been  and  got  herself  full  of  the  drink,  and 
that's  what's  the  matter  with  she.  See  there,  how  she 
do  lie,  snoring  asleep  under  the  shawl  of  her  ;  and  not  a 


34  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

word  nor  sound  have  I  got  out  of  she  since  giving  her 
the  drop  of  tea  a  while  back. 

STEVE.  Well,  well — she  won't  do  us  no  harm  where 
she  do  bide.  Leave  her  in  the  warm  till  'tis  daylight, 
then  let  her  go  her  way. 

JANE.  She  and  Gran'  be  about  right  company  one 
for  t'other,  I'm  thinking. 

STEVE.  Ah,  that  they  be.  Let  them  sleep  it  off  and 
you  get  up  to  bed,  Mother. 

JANE.  That  I  will,  Steve.  Be  you  a-going  to  see 
Annie  safe  to  home  ? 

ANNIE.  Do  you  bide  here,  Steve,  and  let  me  run 
back — 'tis  but  a  step — and  I  don't  like  for  you  to  come 
out  into  the  snow  again. 

STEVE.  I'm  coming  along  of  you,  Annie.  Get  off  to 
bed,  Mother.  I'll  be  back  to  lock  up  and  all  that  in  less 
nor  ten  minutes. 

JANE.  All  right,  Steve,  and  do  you  cast  an  eye 
around  to  see  as  I  han't  left  nothing  out  as  might  get 
took  away,  for  'tis  poor  work  leaving  the  kitchen  to 
roadsters  and  gipsies  and  the  like. 

[JANE  lights  a  candle  and  goes  upstairs.  STEVE 
takes  ANNIE'S  hand  and  they  go  together 
towards  the  outer  door.  As  they  pass  to  the 
other  side  of  the  curtain  which  is  drawn 
across  the  room,  MAY  suddenly  rears  her- 
self up  on  the  settle,  throwing  back  her 
shawl,  and  she  leans  forward,  listening 
intently. 

STEVE.     To-morrow  night,  Annie  ! 
ANNIE.    There'll  be  no  turning  out  into  the  snow  for 
us  both,  Steve. 

STEVE.     You'll  bide  here,  Annie,  and  'tis  more  glad- 
ness than  I  can  rightly  think  on,  that  'tis. 
ANNIE.    Steve ! 
STEVE.    Well,  Annie. 

ANNIE  There's  summat  what's  been  clouding  you  a 
bit  this  night.  You  didn't  know  as  how  I'd  seen  it,  but 
'twas  so. 


ACT  ii  THE   NEW   YEAR  35 

STEVE.  Why,  Annie,  I  didn't  think  as  how  you'd 
take  notice  as  I  was  different  from  ordinary. 

ANNIE.  But  I  did,  Steve.  And  at  the  dancing  there 
was  summat  in  the  looks  of  you  which  put  me  in  mind  of 
a  thing  what's  hurted.  Steve,  I  couldn't  abide  for  to 
see  you  stand  so  sad  with  the  music  going  on  and  all. 
So  I  told  you  as  I'd  the  headache. 

STEVE.  0  Annie,  'twas  thoughts  as  was  too  heavy  for 
me,  and  I  couldn't  seem  to  get  them  pushed  aside,  like. 

ANNIE.     How'd  it  be  if  you  was  to  tell  me,  Steve. 

STEVE.  I  don't  much  care  for  to,  Annie.  But  'twas 
thoughts  what  corned  out  of  the  time  gone  by,  as  may  be 
I'd  been  a  bit  too  hard  with — with  her  as  was  Dorry's 
mother. 

ANNIE.  0,  I'm  sure,  from  all  I  hear,  as  she  had 
nothing  to  grumble  at,  Steve. 

STEVE.  And  there  came  a  fearsome  thought,  too, 
Annie,  as  you  might  go  the  same  way  through  not  getting 
on  comfortable  with  me,  and  me  being  so  much  older  nor 
you,  and  such-like.  Annie,  I  couldn't  bear  for  it  to 
happen  so,  I  could  not.  For  I  holds  to  having  you  aside 
of  me  always  stronger  nor  I  holds  to  anything  else  in  the 
world,  and  I  could  not  stand  it  if  'twas  as  I  should  lose 
you. 

ANNIE.  There's  nothing  in  the  world  as  could  make 
you  lose  me,  Steve.  For,  look  you  here,  I  don't  think 
as  there's  a  woman  on  the  earth  what's  got  such  a  feeling 
as  is  in  my  heart  this  night,  of  quiet,  Steve,  and  of  glad- 
ness, because  that  you  and  me  is  to  be  wed  and  to  live 
aside  of  one  another  till  death  do  part  us. 

STEVE.    Them  be  good  words,  Annie,  and  no  mistake. 

ANNIE.  And  what  you  feels  about  the  days  gone  by 
don't  count,  Steve,  'cause  they  bain't  true  of  you.  You 
was  always  a  kind  husband,  and  from  what  I've  hear-ed 
folks  say,  she  was  one  as  wasn't  never  suited  to  neither 
you  nor  yours. 

STEVE.  Poor  soul,  she  be  dead  and  gone  now,  and 
what  I  thinks  one  way  or  t'other  can't  do  she  no  good. 
Only  'tis  upon  me  as  I  could  take  you  to-morrow  more 


36  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

glad-like,  Annie,  if  so  be  as  I  had  been  kinder  to  she,  the 
time  her  was  here. 

ANNIE.  Do  you  go  off  to  bed,  Steve,  you're  regular 
done  up,  and  that's  what  'tis.  I  never  hear-ed  you  take 
on  like  this  afore. 

STEVE.  All  right,  my  dear,  don't  you  mind  what  I've 
been  saying.  Very  like  'tis  a  bit  unnerved  as  I  be  this 
night.  But  'tis  a  good  thought,  bain't  it,  Annie,  that 
come  to-morrow  at  this  time,  there  won't  be  no  more 
need  for  us  to  part  ? 

ANNIE.  [As  he  opens  the  door.]  0,  'tis  dark  outside  ! 
[They  both  leave  the  cottage.  MAY  throws  back 
her  shawl  as  though  stifled.  She  gets  up  and 
first  stands  bending  over  VASHTI.  Seeing 
that  she  is  still  sleeping  heavily,  she  goes  to 
the  door,  opens  it  gently  and  looks  out. 
After  a  moment  she  closes  it  and  walks  about 
the  kitchen,  examining  everything  with  a 
fierce  curiosity.  She  takes  up  the  shawl 
DORRY  has  been  wearing,  looks  at  it  hesi- 
tatingly, and  then  clasps  it  passionately  to 
her  face.  Hearing  steps  outside  she  flings 
it  down  again  on  the  chair  and  returns  to 
the  settle,  where  she  sits  huddled  in  the 
corner,  having  wrapped  herself  again  in  her 
shawl,  only  her  eyes  looking  out  unquietly 
from  it.  STEVE  re-enters.  He  bolts  the 
door,  then  goes  up  to  the  table  in  front  of  the 
fire  to  put  out  the  lamp. 

STEVE.  Can  I  get  you  an  old  sack  or  summat  for  to 
cover  you  up  a  bit  this  cold  night  ? 

[MAY   looks   at   him  for   a   moment  and   then 

shakes   her  head. 

STEVE.     All  right.     You  can  just  bide  where  you  be 

on  the  settle.     'Tis  warmer  within  nor  upon  the  road 

to-night,  and  I'll  come  and  let  you  out  when  'tis  morning. 

[MAY  raises  both  her  hands  in  an  attitude  of 

supplication. 
STEVE.     [Pausing,  with  his  hand  on  the  burner  of  the 


ACT  ii  THE   NEW   YEAR  37 

lamp.]    Be  there  summat  as  you  wants  what  I  can  give 
to  you  ? 

[MAY  looks  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  speaks 

in  a  harsh  whisper. 

MAY.     Let  I  bide  quiet  in  the  dark,  'tis  all  I  wants 

now.  [STEVE   puts   out   the   lamp. 

STEVE.     [As  though  to  himself,  as  he  goes  towards  the 

door  upstairs.]    Then  get  off  to  your  drunken  sleep 

again,  and  your  dreams. 

Curtain. 


ACT  II.— Scene   4. 

The  fire  is  almost  out.  A  square  of  moonlight  falls  on  the 
floor  from  the  window.  VASHTI  still  sleeps  in  the 
chimney  corner.  MAY  is  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  on 
the  settle. 

MAY.  Get  off  to  your  drunken  sleep  and  to  your 
dreams  !  Your  dreams — your  dreams — Ah,  where  is  it 
as  they  have  gone,  I'd  like  for  to  know.  The  dreams 
as  corned  to  I  when  I  was  laid  beneath  the  hedge. 
Dreams  ! 

[She  gets  up,  feels  down  the  wall  in  a  familiar 
way  for  the  bellows— blows  up  the  fire  and 
puts  some  coal  on  it  gently.     Then  she  draws 
forward  a  chair  and  sits  down  before  it. 
MAY.     [Muttering  to  herself.]    'Tis  my  own  hearth 
when  'tis  all  said  and  done. 

[She  turns  up  the  front  of  her  skirt  and  warms 
herself,  looking  sharply  at  VASHTI  REED 
now  and  then. 

[Presently  VASHTI'S  eyes  open,  resting,  at  first 
unseeingly,  and  then  with  recognition,  on 
MAY'S  face. 


38  THE    NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

VASHTI.  So  you  be  corned  back,  May.  I  always 
knowed  as  you  would. 

MAY.     How  did  you  know  'twas  me,  then  ? 

VASHTI.     'Cause  I  knowed.    There  'tis. 

MAY.  I  be  that  changed  from  the  times  when  I  would 
sit  a- warming  of  myself  by  this  here  fire. 

VASHTI.  Ah,  and  be  you  changed,  May  ?  My  eyes 
don't  see  nothing  of  it,  then. 

MAY.  Ah,  I  be  got  into  an  ugly  old  woman  now, 
mother,  and  Steve— Steve,  he  looked  in  the  face  of  I 
and  didn't  so  much  as  think  who  'twas.  "  Get  off  to  the 
drunken  sleep  of  you  and  to  your  dreams."  'Twas  that 
what  he  did  say  to  I. 

VASHTI.  Your  old  mother  do  know  better  nor  Steve. 
Ah,  'tweren't  in  no  shroud  as  I  seed  you,  May,  nor  yet 
with  the  sod  upon  the  face  of  you,  but  stepping,  stepping 
up  and  down  on  the  earth,  through  the  water  what 
layed  on  the  roads,  and  on  the  dry  where  there  be  high 
places,  and  in  the  grass  of  the  meadows.  That's  how 
'twas  as  I  did  see  you,  May. 

MAY.  And  I  would  like  to  know  how  'tv  as  as  Steve 
saw  I. 

VASHTI.  Ah,  and  there  was  they  as  did  buzz  around 
as  thick  as  waspes  in  summer  time  and  as  said,  "  She 
be  under  ground  and  rotting  now — that  her  be."  And 
they  seed  in  I  but  a  poor  old  woman  what  was  sleeping 
in  the  chimney  corner,  with  no  hearing  to  I.  "  Rotting 
yourself,"  I  says,  and  I  rears  up  sudden,  "  She  be  there 
as  a  great  tree  and  all  the  leaves  of  it  full  out — and  you 
— snakes  in  the  grass,  snakes  in  the  grass,  all  of  you  !  " 
There  'tis. 

MAY.  [Mockingly.]  "  It's  a  good  thought,  bain't  it, 
Annie,  that  to-morrow  this  time  there  won't  be  no  need 
for  us  to  part  ?  "  And  in  the  days  when  I  was  a  young 
woman  and  all  the  bloom  of  I  upon  me,  'twouldn't  have 
been  once  as  he'd  have  looked  on  such  as  her. 

VASHTI.  And  'tis  full  of  bloom  and  rare  fine  and 
handsome  as  you  appear  now,  May,  leastways  to  my 
old  eyes.  And  when  you  goes  up  to  Steve  and  shows 


ACT  n  THE   NEW   YEAR  39 

yourself,  I  take  it  the  door'll  be  shut  in  the  face  of  the 
mealy  one  what  they've  all  been  so  took  up  with  this 
long  while.  I  count  that  'twill  and  no  mistake.  So  'tis. 

MAY.  [Fiercely.]  Hark  you  here,  Mother,  and  'tis 
to  be  wed  to-morrow  as  they  be  !  Wed — the  both  of 
them,  the  both  of  them  !  And  me  in  my  flesh,  and  wife 
to  Steve  !  "  Can  I  cover  you  up  with  a  bit  of  old  sack 
or  summat  ?  "  Old  sack  !  When  there  be  a  coverlet 
with  feathers  to  it  stretched  over  where  he  do  lie  upstairs. 
"  I'll  let  you  out  when  'tis  morning."  Ah,  you  will, 
will  you,  Steve  Browning  ?  Us'll  see  how  'twill  be 
when  'tis  morning — Us'll  see,  just  won't  us  then  ! 

VASHTI.  Ah,  'tis  in  her  place  as  th'  old  woman  will 
be  set  come  morning — And  that  her'll  be — I  count  as 
'tis  long  enough  as  her  have  mistressed  it  over  the  house. 
[Shaking  her  fist  towards  the  ceiling.]  You  old  she  fox, 
you  may  gather  the  pads  of  you  in  under  of  you  now, 
and  crouch  you  down  t'other  side  of  the  fire  like  any 
other  old  woman  of  your  years — for  my  May's  corned 
back,  and  her'll  show  you  your  place  what  you've  not 
known  where  'twas  in  all  the  days  of  your  old  wicked 
life.  So  'tis. 

MAY.  Her  han't  changed  a  hair  of  her,  th'old  stoat ! 
Soon  as  I  heard  the  note  of  she,  the  heat  bubbled  up  in 
I,  though  'twas  chattering  in  the  cold  as  I  had  been  but 
a  moment  afore.  "  One  of  they  dirty  roadsters — I'll 
learn  you  to  come  disturbing  of  a  wedding  party,  I  will." 
[Shaking  her  fist  towards  the  ceiling.]  No,  you  bain't 
changed,  you  hardened  old  sinner — but  the  words  out 
of  the  cruel  old  mouth  of  you  don't  hurt  I  any  more — 
not  they.  I  be  passed  out  of  the  power  of  such  as  you. 
I  knowed  I'd  have  to  face  you  when  I  corned  back,  but 
I  knowed,  too,  as  I  should  brush  you  out  of  the  way  of 
me,  like  I  would  brush  one  of  they  old  maid  flies. 

VASHTI.  Ah,  and  so  I  telled  she  many  a  time.  "  You 
bide  till  my  May  be  corned  home,"  I  says.  "  She  be 
already  put  safe  to  bed  and  'tis  in  the  churchyard  where 
her  do  take  her  rest,"  says  she.  Ah,  what  a  great  liar 
that  is,  th'old  woman  what's  Steve's  mother  !  And  the 


40  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

lies  they  do  grow  right  out  of  she  tall  as  rushes,  and  the 
wind  do  blow  they  to  the  left  and  to  the  right.     So  'tis. 

MAY.  Ah,  she  han't  any  more  power  for  to  hurt  I  in 
the  ugly  old  body  of  her.  I  be  got  beyond  she.  There 
be  but  one  or  two  things  as  can  touch  I  now — But  one 
or  two.  And  I  be  struck  to  the  heart,  I  be,  struck  to 
the  heart. 

[She  bends  forwards,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro 
and  weeping. 

MAY.  [As  though  speaking  to  herself. ,]  Back  and  fro, 
back  and  fro — On  the  dark  of  the  earth  and  where 
'twas  light.  When  'twas  cold  and  no  sound  but  the 
steps  of  I  on  the  road,  and  the  fox's  bark  ;  when  'twas 
hot  and  the  white  dust  smouldered  in  the  mouth  of  I, 
and  things  flying  did  plague  I  with  the  wings  of  they — 
But  'twas  always  the  same  thought  as  I  had — "  Some 
day  I  shall  come  back  to  Steve,"  I  did  tell  me.  And  then 
again — "  Some  day  I  shall  get  and  hold  Dorry  in  my 
arms."  And  now  I  be  corned.  And  Steve — and  Steve 
— Ah,  I  be  struck  deep  to  the  heart,  'tis  so.  Struck 
deep  ! 

VASHTI.  You  get  upstairs  to  Steve,  May.  Get  you 
up  there  and  take  the  place  what's  yours. 

MAY.  My  place,  my  place !  Where's  that  I  want 
to  know  !  'Tis  another  what's  got  into  the  nest  now, 
to  lie  snug  and  warm  within.  And  'tis  for  I  to  spread 
the  wings  of  me  and  to  go  out  into  the  storm  again. 
So  'tis. 

VASHTI.  Get  you  to  Steve,  May,  and  let  him  but  look 
on  the  form  of  you  and  on  the  bloom,  and  us'll  see  what 
he  will  do  with  t'other  hussy  then.  Ah,  they  sneaking, 
mealy  wenches  what  have  got  fattened  up  and  licked 
over  by  th'old  woman  till  'tis  queens  as  they  fancies 
theirselves,  you  shall  tell  they  summat  about  what  they 
be,  come  morning.  And  your  poor  old  mother,  her'll 
speak,  too,  what  hasn't  been  let  sound  her  tongue  these 
years  gone  by.  Ah,  hern  shall  know  what  us  do  think 
of  they,  hern  shall  squat  upon  the  floor  and  hear  the 
truth. 


ACT  H  THE   NEW   YEAR  41 

MAY.  He  thought  as  I  was  sleeping  ;  but  I  looked 
out  on  her  and  seed  the  way  his  eyes  was  cast  upon  the 
girl.  Steve,  if  you  had  cast  your  eyes  on  me  like  that 
but  once,  in  days  gone  by — maybe,  maybe  I'd  not  have 
gone  out  and  shut  the  door  behind  I. 

VASHTI.  Get  you  to  Steve  and  let  him  see  you  with 
the  candle  lit.  Her  bain't  no  match  for  he,  the  young 
weasel !  'Tis  you  as  has  the  blood  of  me  and  my  people 
what  was  grand  folk  in  times  gone  by,  'tis  you,  May,  as 
is  the  mate  for  he,  above  all  them  white-jowled  things 
what  has  honey  at  the  mouth  of  they,  but  the  heart 
running  over  with  poison — Ah,  and  what  throws  you 
the  bone  and  keeps  the  meat  for  their  own  bellies .  What 
sets  the  skin  afore  you  and  laps  the  cream  theirselves. 
Vipers,  all  of  them,  and  she-cats.  There  'tis. 

MAY.  Sit  you  down,  Mother,  and  keep  the  tongue  of 
you  quiet.  We  don't  want  for  to  waken  they. 

VASHTI.  [Sitting  down  heavily.]  But  we've  got  to 
waken  Steve  for  he  to  know  as  how  you  be  corned  home 
again. 

MAY.  And  where's  the  good  of  that,  when  there  bain't 
so  much  as  a  board  nor  a  rag,  but  what's  been  stole 
from  I  ? 

VASHTI.  You  go  and  say  to  him  as  'tis  his  wife  what 
have  come  back  to  her  place.  And  put  th'old  woman 
against  the  chimney  there,  and  let  her  see  you  a-cutting 
of  the  bread  and  of  the  meat,  and  a-setting  out  of  the 
food  so  as  that  they  who  be  at  the  table  can  loose  the 
garments  of  them  when  the  eating  'tis  finished,  if  they 
has  a  mind  to,  'stead  of  drawing  they  together  so  not 
to  feel  'tis  leer.  Ah,  'tis  time  you  be  corned,  May,  'tis 
time. 

MAY.     [Bitterly.]    I'm  thinking  'tis  time  ! 

VASHTI.  'Tis  the  lies  of  they  be  growed  big  as  wheat 
stalks  and  the  hardness  of  their  hearts  be  worse  nor 
death.  But  'tis  to  judgment  as  they  shall  be  led,  now 
you  be  corned  home,  May,  and  the  hand  of  God  shall 
catch  they  when  they  do  crawl  like  adders  upon  the 
earth.  "  Ah,  and  do  you  mind  how  'twas  you  served 


42  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

old  Vashti,  what  never  did  harm  to  no  one  all  the  life 
of  her,"  I  shall  call  out  to  th'  old  woman  in  that  hour 
when  her  shall  be  burning  in  the  lake.  And  her  shall 
beg  for  a  drop  of  water  to  lay  upon  the  withered  tongue 
of  she,  and  it  shall  be  denied,  for  other  hands  nor  ours  be 
at  work,  and  'tis  the  wicked  as  shall  perish — yes,  so  'tis. 

MAY.  [Who  has  been  bending  forward,  looking  steadily 
into  the  fire.]  Stop  that,  Mother,  I  wants  to  get  at  my 
thoughts. 

VASHTI.  Be  you  a-going  to  set  on  I,  too,  May,  now 
that  you  be  corned  home.  'Tis  poor  work  for  an  old 
woman  like  I. 

MAY.  [As  though  to  herself.]  And  as  I  was  laid 
beneath  the  hedge — "  'Tis  cold  as  my  limbs  is,  now," 
I  says,  "  but  I  shall  be  warm  this  night."  And  the 
pangs  what  was  in  the  body  of  me  did  fairly  quail  I — 
"  'Tis  my  fill  of  victuals  as  I  shall  soon  put  within," 
thinks  I.  And  they  was  laid  a  bit.  The  bleakness  of 
the  tempest  fell  on  I,  but  "  I  shan't  feel  lonesome  no 
longer  than  this  hour,"  I  telled  me.  For  to  my  thinking, 
Steve,  he  was  waiting  all  the  time  till  I  should  be  corned 
back.  And  Dorry,  too.  There  'tis.  [A  long  silence. 

MAY.  I'd  have  been  content  to  bide  with  the  door 
shut — so  long  as  it  was  shut  with  they  two  and  me 
inside  the  room — th'old  woman — well,  I  count  I  shouldn't 
have  took  many  thought  for  she — she  could  have  bided 
in  her  place  if  she'd  had  a  mind — I'd  have  set  me  down, 
when  once  my  clothes  was  decent  and  clean,  and  put 
my  hands  to  the  work  and  made  a  tidy  wife  for  Steve, 
as  good  nor  better  than  that  there  dressed-up  thing  out 
yonder — And  bred  Dorry  up  the  right  way,  too,  I  would. 
But  'tis  done  with  now,  so  'tis. 

VASHTI.  [As  though  to  herself.]  And  when  'tis 
morning  and  she  gets  her  down — "  There,  'tis  my  girl  as  is 
mistress  here,  I'll  say  to  her — and  'tis  my  girl  as  shall 
sit  cup  end  of  the  table — and  you  get  you  to  the  fire 
corner  and  bide  there,  like  the  poor  old  woman  as  you 
be,  spite  that  you  do  slip  about  so  spry  on  the  wicked  old 
legs  of  you." 


ACT  ii  THE   NEW   YEAR  43 

MAY.  And  I  could  set  she  back  in  her  place,  too, 
that  tricked-up,  flashy  thing  over  the  way.  I've  but  to 
climb  the  stairs  and  clap  my  hand  on  Steve — "  Get  you 
from  your  dreams,"  I  have  got  but  to  say,  "  the  woman 
what's  yourn  be  corned  home.  Her  have  tasted  the 
cup  of  death,  very  near,  and  her  have  been  a-thirst  and 
an  hungered.  But  her  has  carried  summat  for  you  in  her 
heart  all  the  way  what  you  wouldn't  find  in  the  heart 
of  t'other,  no,  not  if  you  was  to  cut  it  open  and  search 
it  through."  And  the  right  belongs  to  I  to  shut  the 
door  on  t'other  hussey,  holding  Steve  to  I  till  death 
divides  we. 

VASHTI.  Going  on  the  road  I  seed  the  eyes  of  they 
blinking  as  I  did  pass  by.  "  And  may  the  light  from  out 
the  thunder  cloud  fall  upon  you,"  I  says  to  them,  "  for 
'tis  a  poor  old  woman  as  I  be  what  has  lost  her  child  ; 
and  what's  that  to  you  if  so  be  as  the  shoes  on  her  feet 
be  broken  or  no  ?  'Tis  naked  as  the  toes  of  you  shall 
go,  that  hour  when  the  days  of  this  world  shall  be  rolled 
by.  Ah,  'tis  naked  and  set  on  the  lake  of  burning  fire 
as  the  hoofs  of  you  shall  run  !  " 

MAY.  I  could  up  and  screech  so  that  the  house 
should  ring  with  the  sound  of  me,  "  I  be  your  wife, 
Steve,  corned  back  after  these  many  years.  What's 
this  that  you've  got  doing  with  another  ?  "  I  could  take 
hold  on  him  and  make  him  look  into  the  eyes  of  I,  yes, 
and  th'old  woman,  too.  "  See  here,  your  '  dirty  road- 
ster,' look  well  on  to  her."  "  Why,  'tis  May."  But 
the  eyes  of  him  would  then  be  cast  so  that  I  should  see 
no  more  than  a  house  what  has  dead  within,  and  the 
blind  pulled  down.  And  I,  what  was  thinking  as  there 
might  be  a  light  in  the  window  ! 

VASHTI.  "  And  you  may  holler,"  I  says  to  them, 
"  you  may  holler  till  you  be  heard  over  the  face  of  all 
the  earth,  but  no  one  won't  take  no  account  of  you." 
And  the  lies  of  them  which  have  turned  into  ropes  of 
hempen  shall  come  up  and  strangle  they.  But  me  and 
my  child  shall  pass  by  all  fatted  up  and  clothed,  and 
with  the  last  flick,  afore  the  eyelids  of  they  drop,  they 


44  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  11 

shall  behold  we,  and,  a-clapping  of  the  teeth  of  them  shall 
they  repent  them  of  their  sins.  Too  late,  too  late  ! 
There  'tis. 

MAY.  Too  late  !  There  'tis,  I  be  corned  home  too 
late. 

[She  rises  and  takes  up  her  shawl,  wrapping  it 
about  her  shoulders,  and  muttering. 

MAY.  But  I  know  a  dark  place  full  of  water— "Tis 
Simon's  pool  they  calls  it — And  I  warrant  as  any  poor 
wretch  might  sleep  yonder  and  be  in  quiet. 

VASHTI.     Be  you  a-going  up  to  Steve  now  ? 

MAY.  No,  I  bain't.  'Tis  out  from  here  that  I  be 
going.  And  back  on  to  the  road. 

VASHTI.  May,  my  pretty  May,  you're  never  going  for 
to  leave  I,  what's  such  a  poor  old  woman  and  wronged 
cruel.  You  step  aloft  and  rouse  up  Steve.  He'll  never 
have  you  go  upon  the  roads  again  once  he  do  know  as 
you've  corned  back. 

MAY.  Steve  !  What's  it  to  Steve  whether  the  like 
of  I  do  go  or  bide  ?  What  be  there  in  I  for  to  quell  the 
love  of  she  which  Steve's  got  in  him  ?  Dead  leaves  for 
new.  Ditch  water  for  the  clear  spring. 

VASHTI.     Give  him  to  drink  of  it,  May. 

MAY.  [Looking  upwards  to  the  ceiling.]  No,  Steve 
Hark  you  here.  I  bain't  a-going  to  do  it.  I  bain't 
going  to  knock  over  the  spoonful  of  sweet  what  you  be 
carrying  to  your  mouth.  You  take  and  eat  of  it  in 
quiet  and  get  you  filled  with  the  honey.  'Tain't  my 
way  to  snatch  from  no  one  so  that  the  emptiness  which 
I  has  in  me  shall  be  fed.  There,  'tis  finished  now,  very 
nigh,  and  the  sharpness  done.  And,  don't  you  fear, 
Steve,  as  ever  I'll  trouble  you  no  more. 

VASHTI.  [Rising.]  I  be  a-going  to  fetch  him  down, 
and  that's  what  I'm  a-going  for  to  do. 

MAY.  [Pushing  her  back  into  her  chair.]  Harken  you, 
Steve,  he's  never  got  to  know  as  I've  been  here. 

VASHTI.     I  tell  you,  May,  I'll  screech  till  he  do  come  ! 

MAY.  [Sitting  down  by  VASHTI  and  laying  her  hand 
on  her.]  I'll  put  summat  in  your  mouth  as'll  stop  you 


ACT  n  THE   NEW   YEAR  45 

if  you  start  screeching,  mother.  Why,  hark  you  here. 
'Tis  enough  of  this  old  place  as  I've  had  this  night,  and 
'tis  out  upon  the  roads  as  I  be  going.  Th'old  woman — 
there's  naught  much  changed  in  she — And  Steve — 
well,  Steve  be  wonderful  hard  in  the  soul  of  him.  "  Can 
I  get  you  an  old  sack,"  says  he— and  never  so  much  as 
seed  'twas  I— Ah — 'tis  more  than  enough  to  turn  the 
stomach  in  anyone— that  it  is.  [A  slight  pause. 

MAY.  I  was  never  a  meek  one  as  could  bide  at  the 
fireside  for  long.  The  four  walls  of  this  here  room  have 
very  near  done  for  me  now,  so  they  have.  And  'tis  the 
air  blowing  free  upon  the  road  as  I  craves — Ah,  and  the 
wind  which  hollers,  so  that  the  cries  of  we  be  less  nor 
they  of  lambs  new  born. 

VASHTI.  God  bless  you,  May,  and  if  you  goes  beyond 
the  door  'tis  the  mealy-faced  jade  will  get  in  come 
morning,  for  Steve  to  wed. 

MAY.  So  'tis.  And  if  I  stopped  'twould  be  the  same, 
her'd  be  between  us  always,  the  pretty  cage  bird — For 
look  you  here  on  I,  Mother,  and  here — {pointing  to  her 
feet] — and  here— and  here — See  what's  been  done  to  I 
what's  knocked  about  in  the  world  along  the  roads,  and 
then  think  if  I  be  such  a  one  as  might  hold  the  love  of 
Steve. 

VASHTI.  [Beginning  to  whine  desolately.]  0,  do  not 
you  go  for  to  leave  your  old  mammy  again  what  has 
mourned  you  as  if  you  was  dead  all  the  years.  Do  not 
you  go  for  to  leave  I  and  the  wicked  around  of  I  as  might 
be  the  venomous  beasts  in  the  grass.  Stop  with  I,  my 
pretty  child — Stop  along  of  your  old  mother,  for  the 
days  of  I  be  few  and  numbered,  and  the  enemies  be  thick 
upon  the  land. 

MAY.  Hark  you  here,  Mother,  and  keep  your  screech- 
ing till  another  time.  I  wants  to  slip  out  quiet  so  as 
Steve  and  th'old  woman  won't  never  know  as  I've  been 
nigh.  And  if  you  keeps  your  mouth  shut,  maybe  I'll 
drop  in  at  our  own  place  on  the  hill  one  of  these  days 
and  bide  comfortable  along  of  you,  only  now — I'm  off, 
do  you  hear  ? 


46  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

VASHTI.  I  can't  abide  for  you  to  go.  'Tis  more  nor  I 
can  stand.  Why,  if  you  goes,  May,  'tis  t'other  wench  and 
th'old  woman  what'll  get  mistressing  it  here  again  in 
your  place.  [Rising  up.]  No — you  shan't  go.  I'll 
holler  till  I've  waked  them  every  one — you  shan't ! 
My  only  child,  my  pretty  May  !  Ah,  'tis  not  likely  as 
you  shall  slip  off  again.  'Tis  not. 

MAY.  Look  you  here,  Mother — bide  still,  I  say. 
[Looking  round  the  room  distractedly.]  See  here — 'tis 
rare  dry  as  I  be.  You  bide  quiet  and  us '11  have  a  drink 
together,  that  us  will.  Look,  th'old  woman's  forgot  to 
put  away  the  bottle,  us'll  wet  our  mouths  nice  and  quiet, 
mother — she  won't  hear  I  taking  out  the  cork,  nor 
nothing.  See ! 

[MAY  gets  up  and  crosses  the  room  ;  she  takes  the 
bottle  off  the  shelf  where  she  has  just  per- 
ceived it,  and  also  two  glasses  ;  she  fills  one 
and  hands  it  to  her  mother. 

VASHTI.  [Stretching  out  her  hand.]  'Tis  rare  dry  and 
parched  as  I  be,  now  I  comes  to  think  on  it,  May. 

MAY.    That's  right — drink  your  fill,  Mother. 

VASHTI.  'Tis  pleasant  for  I  to  see  you  mistressing  it 
here  again,  May. 

MAY.     Ah,  'tis  my  own  drink  and  all,  come  to  that. 

VASHTI.  So  'tis.  And  the  tea  what  she  gived  me 
was  but  ditch  water.  I  seed  her  spoon  it  in  the  pot, 
and  'twas  not  above  a  half  spoon  as  her  did  put  in  for  I, 
th'old  badger.  My  eye  was  on  she,  though,  and  her'll 
have  it  cast  up  at  she  when  the  last  day  shall  come  and  the 
trumpet  sound  and  all  flesh  stand  quailing,  and  me  and 
mine  looking  on  at  her  as  is  brought  to  judgment.  How 
will  it  be  then,  you  old  sinner,  says  I. 

MAY.  [Re-filling  the  glass.]  Take  and  drink  this 
little  drop  more,  mother. 

[VASHTI  drinks  and  then  leans  back  in  her  chair 
again  with  half  closed  eyes. 

MAY.  [Putting  away  the  bottle  and  glasses.]  Her'll 
sleep  very  like,  now.  And  when  her  wakes,  I  take  it 
'twill  appear  as  though  she'd  been  and  dreamt  summat. 


ACT  ii  THE   NEW   YEAR  47 

VASHTI.  Do  you  sit  a-nigh  me,  May.  The  night  be  a 
wild  one.  I  would  not  have  you  be  on  the  roads. 

MAY.  [Sitting  down  beside  her.]  0,  the  roads  be 
fine  on  nights  when  the  tempest  moves  in  the  trees 
above  and  the  rain  falls  into  the  mouth  of  you  and  lies 
with  a  good  taste  on  your  tongue.  And  you  goes  quick 
on  through  it  till  you  comes  to  where  the  lights  do  blink, 
and  'tis  a  large  town  and  there  be  folk  moving  this  way 
and  that  and  the  music  playing,  and  great  fowls  and 
horses  what's  got  clocks  to  the  inside  of  they,  a-stirring 
them  up  for  to  run,  and  girls  and  men  a-riding  on  them — 
And  the  booths  with  red  sugar  and  white,  all  lit  and 
animals  that's  wild  a-roaring  and  a-biting  in  the  tents — 
And  girls  what's  dancing,  standing  there  in  satin  gowns 
all  over  gold  and  silver — And  you  walks  to  and  fro  in  it 
all  and  'tis  good  to  be  there  and  free — And  'tis  better 
to  be  in  such  places  and  to  come  and  to  go  where  you 
have  a  mind  than  to  be  cooped  in  here,  with  th'old 
woman  and  all — 'Tis  a  fine  life  as  you  lives  on  the 
roads — and  'tis  a  better  one  nor  this,  I  can  tell  you, 
Mother. 

VASHTI.  [Who  has  gradually  been  fatting  into  sleep.] 
I  count  'tis  so.  'Tis  prime  in  the  freshening  of  the  day. 
I  count  I'll  go  along  of  you,  come  morning. 

MAY.     That's  it,  Mother,  that's  it.     Us'll  take  a  bit  of 
sleep  afore  we  sets  off,  won't  us  ?     And  when  morning 
comes,  us'll  open  the  door  and  go  out. 
VASHTI.    That's  it,  when  'tis  day. 

[Her  head  falls  to  one  side  of  the  chair  and  she  is 

presently  asleep. 

[MAY  watches  her  for  some  moments.  Then  she 
gets  up  softly  and  wraps  her  shawl  round 
her.  The  window  shews  signs  of  a  gray 
light  outside,  MAY  goes  quietly  towards  the 
outer  door.  As  she  reaches  it,  DORRY  comes 
into  the  room  from  the  staircase. 

DORRY.  [Going  up  to  VASHTI.]  Granny,  'tis  the 
New  Year  !  I'm  come  down  to  see  to  the  fire  and  to  get 
breakfast  for  Dad  and  Gran'ma.  Why,  Granny,  you're 


48  THE    NEW   YEAR  ACT  n 

sleeping  still.     And  where's  that  poor  tramp  gone  off  to  ? 
[She  looks  round  the  room  and  then  sees  MAY  by 

the  door. 

DOREY.  0,  there  you  are.  Are  you  going  out  on 
the  road  afore  'tis  got  light  ? 

MAY.  [In  a  hoarse  whisper.]  And  that  I  be.  Tis 
very  nigh  to  daybreak,  so  'tis. 

DORRY.  Stop  a  moment.  [Calling  up  the  stairs.] 
Daddy,  the  tramp  woman,  she's  moving  of?  already. 

STEVE.  [From  upstairs.]  Then  give  her  a  bit  of 
bread  to  take  along  of  she.  I  don't  care  that  anyone 
should  go  an-hungered  this  day. 

DORRY.  [Turning  to  MAY.]  There — you  bide  a 
minute  whilst  I  cuts  the  loaf.  My  Dad's  going  to  get 
married  this  day,  and  he  don't  care  that  anyone  should 
go  hungry. 

[MAY  comes  slowly  back  into  the  room  and  stands 
watching  DORRY,  who  fetches  a  loaf  from 
the  pantry  and  cuts  it  at  the  table.  Then 
she  pulls  aside  the  curtain  and  a  dim  light 
comes  in. 

DORRY.  The  snow's  very  nigh  gone,  and  'tis  like  as 
not  as  the  sun  may  come  out  presently.  Here's  a  piece 
of  bread  to  take  along  of  you.  There,  it's  a  good  big 
piece,  take  and  eat  it. 

[MAY  hesitates  an  instant,  then  she  stretches  out 
her  hand  and  takes  the  bread  and  puts  it 
beneath  her  shawl. 

MAY.  And  so  there's  going  to  be  a  wedding  here 
to-day  ? 

DORRY.     'Tis  my  Dad  as  is  to  be  married. 
MAY.     'Tis  poor  work,  is  twice  marrying. 
DORRY.    My  Dad's  ever  so  pleased,  I  han't  seen  him 
so  pleased  as  I  can  remember.  I  han't.. 
MAY.    Then  maybe  the  second  choosing  be  the  best. 
DORRY.    Yes,  'tis — Gran'ma  says  as  'tis — and  Dad, 
he  be  ever  so  fond  of  Miss  Sims — and  I  be,  too. 

MAY.  Then  you've  no  call  to  wish  as  her  who's  gone 
should  come  back  to  you,  like  ? 


ACT  ii  THE   NEW   YEAR  49 

DORRY.     What's  that  you're  saying  ? 

MAY.  You  don't  never  want  as  your  mammy  what 
you've  lost  should  be  amongst  you  as  afore  ? 

DOERY.  I  never  knowed  my  mammy.  Gran'ma 
says  she  had  got  summat  bad  in  her  blood.  And  Granny's 
got  the  same.  But  Miss  Sims,  she's  ever  so  nice  to  Dad 
and  me,  and  I'm  real  pleased  as  she's  coming  to  stop 
along  of  us  always  after  that  they're  married,  like. 

MAY.  And  th'old  woman  what's  your  gran'ma, 
Dorry  ? 

DORRY.  However  did  you  know  as  I  was  called 
"  Dorry  "  ? 

MAY.     I  heard  them  call  you  so  last  night. 

DORRY.  And  whatever  do  you  want  to  know  about 
Gran'ma  ? 

MAY.  What  have  her  got  to  say  'bout  the — the — 
wench  what's  going  to  marry  your  dad  ? 

DORRY.  0,  Gran'ma,  she  thinks  ever  such  a  lot  of 
Miss  Sims,  and  she  says  as  how  poor  Dad,  what's  been 
served  so  bad,  will  find  out  soon  what  'tis  to  have  a  real 
decent  wife,  what'll  help  with  the  work  and  all,  and  what 
won't  lower  him  by  her  ways,  nor  nothing. 

MAY.  Look  you  here — 'tis  growing  day.  I  must  be 
getting  off  and  on  to  the  road. 

DORRY.  [Moving  to  the  door.]  I'll  unbolt  the  door, 
then.  0,  'tis  fine  and  daylight  now. 

MAY.  [Turning  back  at  the  doorway  and  looking  at  the 
room.]  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  like  to  touch  me,  for 
good  luck,  Dorry  ? 

DORRY.  No,  I  shouldn't.  Gran'ma,  she  don't  let 
me  go  nigh  road  people  as  a  rule.  She's  a-f eared  as  I 
should  take  summat  from  them,  I  suppose. 

MAY.  [Hoarsely,  her  hand  on  the  door.]  Then  just 
say  as  you  wishes  me  well,  Dorry. 

DORRY.     I'll  wish  you  a  good  New  Year,  then,  and 

Gran'ma  said  as  I  was  to  watch  as  you  cleared  off  the 

place.       [MAY    goes    out    softly    and    quickly.    DORRY 

watches  her  until  she  is  out  of  sight,  and 

then  she  shuts  the  door. 


50  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  m 


ACT  III.— Scene  1. 

The  same  room.  It  is  nearly  mid-day,  and  the  room  is 
full  of  sunshine.  JANE  BROWNING,  in  her  best 
dress,  is  fastening  DOWRY'S  frock,  close  to  the  window. 

DORRY.  Dad's  been  a  rare  long  time  a-cleaning  of 
his  self  up,  Gran. 

JANE,  Will  you  bide  still !  However's  this  frock  to 
get  fastened  and  you  moving  this  way  and  that  like  some 
live  eel — and  just  see  what  a  mark  you've  made  on  the 
elbow  last  night,  putting  your  arm  down  somewhere 
where  you  didn't  ought  to — I  might  just  as  well  have 
never  washed  the  thing. 

DORRY.  Granny's  sound  asleep  still — she'll  have  to 
be  waked  time  we  goes  along  to  the  church. 

JANE.  That  her  shan't  be.  Her  shall  just  bide  and 
sleep  the  drink  out  of  her,  her  shall.  Do  you  think  as  I 
didn't  find  out  who  'twas  what  had  got  at  the  bottle  as 
Dad  left  on  the  dresser  last  night. 

DORRY.    Poor  Gran,  she  do  take  a  drop  now  and  then. 

JANE.  Shame  on  th'old  gipsy.  Her  shall  be  left  to 
bide  till  she  have  slept  off  some  of  the  nonsense  which  is 
in  her. 

DORRY.  Granny  do  say  a  lot  of  funny  things  some- 
times, don't  she,  now  ? 

JANE.  You  get  and  put  on  your  hat  and  button  your 
gloves,  and  let  the  old  gipsy  be.  We  can  send  her  off 
home  when  'tis  afternoon,  and  us  back  from  church. 
Now,  where  did  I  lay  that  bonnet  ?  Here  'tis. 

[She  begins  to  tie  the  strings  before  a  small  mirror 
in  the  wall.  STEVE  comes  downstairs  in 
his  shirt  sleeves,  carrying  his  coat. 

DORRY.  Why,  Dad,  you  do  look  rare  pleased  at 
summat. 

STEVE.  And  when's  a  man  to  look  pleased  if  'tis  not 
on  his  wedding  morn,  Dorry  ? 


ACT  ni  THE   NEW   YEAR  51 

DORRY.  The  tramp  what  was  here  did  say  as  how 
'twas  poor  work  twice  marrying,  but  you  don't  find  it  be 
so,  Dad,  do  you  now  ? 

STEVE.  And  that  I  don't,  my  little  wench.  'Tis  as 
nigh  heaven  as  I  be  like  to  touch — and  that's  how  'tis 
with  me. 

JANE.  [Taking  STEVE'S  coat  from  him.}  Ah,  'tis 
a  different  set  out  altogether  this  time.  That  'tis.  'Tis 
a-marrying  into  your  own  rank,  like,  and  no  mixing  up 
with  they  trolloping  gipsies. 

DORRY.  Was  my  own  mammy  a  trolloping  gipsy, 
Gran  ? 

JANE.  [Beginning  to  brush  STEVE'S  coat.]  Ah,  much 
in  the  same  pattern  as  th'old  woman  what's  drunk 
asleep  against  the  fireside.  Here,  button  up  them 
gloves,  'tis  time  we  was  off. 

DORRY.  I  do  like  Miss  Sims.  She  do  have  nice  things 
on  her.  When  I  grows  up  I'd  like  to  look  as  she  do,  so 
I  would. 

STEVE.  [To  JANE.]  There,  Mother,  that'll  do.  I'd 
best  put  him  on  now. 

JANE.  [Holding  out  the  coat  for  him.]  Well,  and  you 
be  got  yourself  up  rare  smart,  Steve. 

STEVE.  'Tis  rare  smart  as  I  be  feeling,  Mother.  I'm 
all  a  kind  of  a  dazzle  within  of  me,  same  as  'tis  with  the 
sun  upon  the  snow  out  yonder. 

JANE.  Why,  look  you,  there's  George  a-coming  up 
the  path  already. 

DORRY.  He's  wearing  of  the  flower  what  Rosie  gived 
him  last  night. 

STEVE.  [Opening  the  door.]  Good  morning,  George. 
A  first  class  New  Year  to  you.  You're  welcome,  if 
ever  a  man  was. 

JANE.  You  bide  where  you  do  stand,  George,  till 
your  feet  is  dry.  My  floor  was  fresh  wiped  over  this 
morning. 

GEORGE.  [Standing  on  the  door  mat.]  All  right,  Mrs. 
Browning.  Don't  you  fluster.  Good  morning,  Dorry. 
How  be  you  to-day,  Steve  ? 


52  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  m 

JANE.  Dorry,  come  you  upstairs  along  with  me  and 
get  your  coat  put  on,  so  as  your  frock  hain't  crushed. 

DORRY.  0,  I  wish  I  could  go  so  that  my  nice  frock 
was  seen  and  no  coat. 

[They  go  upstairs.  GEORGE  rubs  his  feet  on 
the  mat  and  comes  into  the  room,  walking 
up  and  down  once  or  twice  restlessly  and  in 
evident  distress  of  mind. 

STEVE.  [Who  has  lit  a  pipe  and  is  smoking.]  Why, 
George,  be  you  out  of  sorts  this  morning  ?  You  don't 
look  up  to  much,  and  that's  the  truth. 

GEORGE.  [Stopping  before  STEVE.]  Hark  you,  Steve. 
'Tis  on  my  mind  to  ask  summat  of  you.  Did  you  have 
much  speech  with  the  poor  thing  what  you  took  in  from 
the  snow  last  night  ? 

STEVE.  No,  George,  and  that  I  didn't.  Her  was 
mostly  in  a  kind  of  drunken  sleep  all  the  time,  and  naught 
to  be  got  out  from  she.  Mother,  her  tried.  But  'twas 
like  trying  to  get  water  from  the  pump  yonder,  when  'tis 
froze. 

GEORGE.  Your  mother's  a  poor  one  at  melting  ice, 
Steve,  and  'tis  what  we  all  knows. 

STEVE.  Ah,  'twasn't  much  as  we  could  do  for  the 
likes  of  she — what  was  a  regular  roadster.  Bad  herbs, 
all  of  them.  And  if  it  hadn't  been  so  as  'twas  my  wed- 
ding eve,  this  one  shouldn't  have  set  foot  inside  of  the 
house.  But  'tis  a  season  when  a  man's  took  a  bit  soft 
and  foolish,  like,  the  night  afore  his  marriage.  Bain't 
that  so,  George  ? 

GEORGE.  And  when  was  it,  Steve,  as  she  went  off 
from  here  ? 

STEVE.  That  I  couldn't  rightly  say,  George,  but  I 
counts  'twas  just  upon  daybreak.  And  'twas  Dorry 
what  seed  her  off  the  place  and  gived  her  a  piece  of  bread 
to  take  along  of  her. 

GEORGE.  And  do  you  think  as  she  got  talking  a  lot 
to  Dorry,  Steve  ? 

STEVE.  I'm  blest  if  I  do  know,  George.  I  never 
gived  another  thought  to  she.  What's  up  ! 


ACT  in  THE   NEW   YEAR  53 

GEORGE.  They  was  getting  the  body  of  her  from  out 
of  Simon's  Pool  as  I  did  come  by.  That's  all. 

STEVE.    From  Simon's  Pool,  George  ? 

GEORGE.  I  count  her  must  have  went  across  the 
plank  afore  'twas  fairly  daylight.  And,  being  slippery, 
like,  from  the  snow,  and  her — her — as  you  did  say. 

STEVE.    In  liquor. 

GEORGE.     I  reckon  as  her  missed  her  footing,  like. 

STEVE.  Well,  upon  my  word,  George,  who'd  have 
thought  on  such  a  thing  ! 

GEORGE.  I  count  as  her  had  been  in  the  water  and 
below  the  ice  a  smartish  while  afore  they  catched  sight 
of  she. 

STEVE.    Well,  'tis  a  cold  finish  to  a  hot  life. 

GEORGE.  They  took  and  laid  her  on  the  grass,  Steve, 
as  I  corned  by. 

STEVE.  If  it  had  been  me,  I'd  have  turned  the  head 
of  me  t'other  side. 

GEORGE.  There  was  summat  in  the  fashion  her  was 
laid,  Steve,  as  drawed  I  near  for  to  get  a  sight  of  the  face 
of  she. 

STEVE.  Well,  I  shouldn't  have  much  cared  for  that, 
George. 

GEORGE.  Steve — did  you  get  a  look  into  the  eyes  of 
yon  poor  thing  last  night  ? 

STEVE.    No,  nor  wanted  for  to,  neither. 

GEORGE.  There  was  naught  to  make  you  think 
of- 

STEVE.     Of  what,  George  ? 

GEORGE.    There — Steve,  I  can't  get  it  out,  I  can't. 

STEVE.    Then  let  it  bide  in. 

GEORGE.  'Twas  the  way  her  was  laid,  and  the  long 
arms  of  she,  and  the  hands  which  was  clapped  one  on 
t'other,  as  it  might  be  in  church. 

STEVE.  [Looking  through  the  window.]  You  shut  up, 
George.  Here's  Annie  with  Rose  a-coming  up  to  the 
door.  Don't  you  get  saying  another  word  about  yon 
poor  wretch  nor  the  end  of  her.  I  wouldn't  have  my 
Annie  upset  for  all  the  world  to-day.  'Tis  a  thing  as 


54  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  m 

must  not  be  spoke  of  afore  they,  nor  Dorry  neither,  do 
you  hear  ? 

[He  moves  towards  the  door  and  puts  his  hand  to 
the  latch. 

GEORGE.  Hold  back,  Steve,  a  minute.  There's 
summat  more  as  I've  got  to  say. 

STEVE.  You  take  and  shut  your  mouth  up,  old 
George,  afore  I  opens  the  door  to  the  girls. 

GEORGE.  'Tis  bound  for  to  come  from  me  afore  you 
goes  along  to  church,  Steve. 

STEVE.  I  warrant  'twill  keep  till  us  do  come  home 
again,  George. 

[He  throws  the  door  wide  open  with  a  joyous 
movement.  ANNIE  and  ROSE  in  white 
dresses  stand  outside. 

STEVE.  Well,  Annie,  this  is  a  rare  surprise,  and  that's 
the  truth.  [ANNIE  and  ROSE  come  into  the  room. 

ROSE.  Father,  he's  outside,  and  Jim  and  Bill 
and  Katie,  and  all  the  rest.  We  said  as  'twould  be 
pleasanter  if  we  was  all  to  go  up  together  along  to  the 
church. 

STEVE.  So  'twould  be — so  'twould  be — 'Twas  a  grand 
thought  of  yourn,  Rosie. 

ANNIE.    Steve 

STEVE.  [Taking  her  hand.]  Annie,  I'm  fair  beside 
myself  this  day. 

ANNIE.  O,  Steve,  there  was  never  a  day  in  my  life 
like  this  one.  [DORRY  and  JANE  come  down. 

DORRY.  0,  Miss  Sims,  you  do  look  nice  !  Gran'ma, 
don't  Miss  Sims  look  nice  ?  And  Rosie,  too.  0,  they 
have  nice  gowns  and  hats  on,  haven't  they,  Dad  ? 

STEVE.  I  don't  see  no  gowns  nor  hats,  and  that's  the 
truth.  But  I  sees  summat  what's  like — what's  like  a 
meadow  of  grass  in  springtime  afore  the  sun's  got 
on  to  it. 

DORRY.  Why,  Dad,  'tis  white,  not  green,  as  Miss 
Sims  is  wearing. 

STEVE.  'Tis  in  the  eyes  of  her  as  I  finds  my 
meadow. 


ACT  ra  THE   NEW   YEAR  55 

DORRY.     0,  let  me  see,  Dad,  let  me  look,  too  ! 

ROSE.  [Going  up  to  GEORGE,  who  has  been  standing 
aloof  and  moody  in  the  background.]  Come,  Mr.  Davis, 
we  must  have  a  look,  too. 

JANE.  Get  along,  get  along.  We  han't  time  for  such 
foolishness.  It  be  close  on  twelve  already. 

ANNIE.  0,  let  me  be,  all  of  you  !  I  declare,  I  don't 
know  which  way  to  look,  I  don't. 

STEVE.    I'll  show  you,  Annie,  then. 

ROSE.  [To  GEORGE.]  Well,  Mr.  Davis,  you  don't 
seem  over  bright  this  morning. 

STEVE.     Tis  with  the  nerves  as  he  be  took ! 

DORRY.  Look  at  what  he's  wearing  in  his  buttonhole, 
Rosie. 

ROSE.     'Tis  kept  beautiful  and  fresh. 

STEVE.  Come  on,  come  on,  all  of  you.  'Tis  time  we 
was  at  the  church. 

ROSE.  Hark  to  him  !  He's  in  a  rare  hurry  for  to 
get  out  of  the  house  to-day. 

GEORGE.     Bain't  the  old  lady  a-coming  ? 

JANE.  That  she  bain't,  the  old  drinking  gipsy — 'tis 
at  the  spirits  as  her  got  in  the  night — and  put  away  very 
near  the  best  part  of  a  bottle.  Now  she's  best  left  to 
sleep  it  off,  she  be. 

STEVE.    Come  on,  George.    Come,  Dorry. 

DORRY.  0,  isn't  it  a  pity  as  Granny  will  get  at  the 
drink,  Mr.  Davis  ?  And  isn't  Miss  Sims  nice  in  her 
white  dress  ?  And  don't  Dad  look  smiling  and  pleased  ? 
I  never  did  know  Dad  smile  like  this  afore. 

GEORGE.  [Heavily.]  Come  on,  Dorry — you  take 
hold  of  me.  You  and  me,  we'll  keep  nigh  one  to  t'other 
this  day,  won't  us  ? 

ROSIE.  [Calling  from  outside.]  Come  on,  Mr.  Davis. 

[They  all  go  out. 


56  THE   NEW   YEAR  ACT  ni 


ACT  III.— Scene  2. 

Nearly  an  hour  later.  The  cottage  room  is  full  of  sunlight. 
VASHTI  REED  is  awake  and  gazing  vacantly  about  her 
from  the  same  chair  by  the  fire.  Someone  knocks 
repeatedly  at  the  door  from  outside. 

VASHTI.  And  'tis  no  bit  of  rest  as  I  gets  for  my  bones, 
but  they  must  come  and  hustle  I  and  call  I  from  the 
dreams  which  was  soft.  [The  knocking  is  heard  again. 

VASHTI.  And  I  up  and  says  to  they,  "  Ah,  and  you 
would  hustle  a  poor  old  woman  what's  never  harmed 
so  much  as  a  hair  out  of  the  ugly  heads  of  you.  You 
would  hunt  and  drive  of  her  till  she  be  very  nigh  done 
to  death.  But  there  shall  come  a  day  when  you  shall 
be  laid  down  and  a-taking  of  your  bit  of  rest,  and  the 
thing  what  you  knows  of  shall  get  up  upon  you  and 
smite  you  till  you  do  go  screeching  from  the  house,  and 
fleeing  to  the  uttermost  part  of  the  land — whilst  me 

and  mine " 

[The  door  opens  and  HARRY  Moss  enters. 

HARRY.  Beg  pardon,  old  Missis,  but  I  couldn't  make 
no  one  hear  me. 

VASHTI.  Seeing  as  them  be  sick  of  the  abomination 
which  was  inside  of  they.  [Perceiving  HARRY.]  Well, 
and  what  be  you  as  is  corned  into  this  room  ? 

HARRY.  'Tis  Moss  as  I  be  called,  old  Missis.  And  as 
I  was  a-going  by  this  place,  I  thought  as  I'd  look  in  a 
moment,  just  for  to  ask  how  'twas  with  May. 

VASHTI.  They  be  all  gone  out  from  the  house.  All 
of  them.  They  be  in  clothes  what  do  lie  in  boxes  most 
of  the  time  with  lumps  of  white  among  they.  Them 
be  set  out  in  the  best  as  they  has,  and  in  grand  things  of 
many  colours.  There  'tis. 

HARRY.  And  be  you  th'old  lady  what's  Steve's 
mother  ? 

VASHTI.    I  be  not,  sir.     'Tis  mother  to  May  as  I  be. 


ACT  ra  THE   NEW   YEAR  57 

May,  what's  corned  back,  and  what'll  set  t'other  old 
vixen  in  her  place  soon  as  they  get  home. 

HARRY.     Then  May,  she  be  gone  out,  too,  have  her  ? 
VASHTI.     [Looking  round  vaguely.]    Ah,  I  counts  as 
her  be  gone  to  church  along  of  t'other. 
HARRY.    To  church,  Missis  ? 

VASHTI.  There's  marrying  being  done  down  here  to- 
day. 

HARRY.  Marrying,  be  there  ?  Well,  but  I  was  'most 
feared  as  how  it  might  have  been  t'other  thing. 

VASHTI.  Ah,  that  there  be — marrying.  But  there 
bain't  no  more  victuals  got  into  the  house  as  I  knows  of. 
Th'old  woman's  seen  to  that. 

HARRY.  And  be  May  gone  out,  too,  along  of  them  to 
see  the  marrying  ? 

VASHTI.  Ah,  I  counts  as  her  be.  But  her's  a-coming 
back  in  a  little  while,  and  you  may  sit  down  and  bide 
till  she  does. 

HARRY.  I'd  sooner  be  about  and  on  my  way,  Missis, 
if  'tis  all  the  same  to  you.  But  I  thanks  you  kindly. 
And  you  get  and  tell  May  when  she  do  come  home,  that 
'tis  particular  glad  I  be  for  to  know  as  her  bain't  took 
worse,  nor  nothing.  And  should  I  happen  in  these  parts 
again,  'tis  very  likely  as  I'll  take  a  look  in  on  she  some 
day. 

VASHTI.  Ah,  her'll  have  got  t'other  old  baggage  set  in 
the  right  place  by  then. 

HARRY.  [Looking  round  him.]  Well,  I  be  rare  pleased 
to  think  of  May  so  comfortable,  like,  for  her  was  got 
down  terrible  low. 

VASHTI.    T'other  '11  be  broughted  lower. 

HARRY.  Look  you  here,  old  Missis,  'tis  a  stomach  full 
of  naught  as  I  carries.  If  so  be  as  you  has  a  crust  to 
spare 

VASHTI.  [Pointing  to  a  door.]  There  be  a  plate  of 
meat  inside  of  that  cupboard.  You  take  and  fill  your 
belly  with  it. 

HARRY.  Thank  you  kindly,  Missis,  but  I  counts  I 
han't  the  time  for  heavy  feeding  this  morning. 


58  THE    NEW   YEAR  ACT  m 

VASHTI.  'Twould  serve  she  right,  th'old  sinner,  for 
the  place  to  be  licked  up  clean,  against  the  time  when  her 
was  come'd  back,  so  'twould. 

HARRY.  Well,  Missis,  you  can  tell  May  'tis  a  brave 
New  Year  as  I  do  wish  she. 

VASHTI.  [Listening  to  bells  which  are  heard  suddenly 
ringing.]  There,  there  they  be !  Harken  to  them ! 
'Tis  with  bells  as  they  be  coming  out.  Bells  what's 
ringing.  I  count  'tis  fine  as  May  do  look  now  in  her 
marriage  gown.  Harken,  'tis  the  bells  a-shaking  of  the 
window  pane.  I  be  an  old  woman,  but  the  hearing  of 
me  bain't  spoiled. 

HARRY.  I  warrant  it  bain't,  Missis.  Why,  they're 
ringing  wonderful  smart.  Tis  enough,  upon  my  word, 
for  to  fetch  down  every  stone  of  the  old  place. 

VASHTI.  Get  you  out  upon  the  garden  path  and  tell  I 
if  you  sees  them  a-coming. 

HARRY.    That's  it,  old  Missis,  and  so  I  will. 

[He  goes  outside  the  house. 

VASHTI.  [Sitting  upright  and  looking  with  fixed 
vacancy  before  her.]  And  when  they  was  all  laid  low  and 
the  heads  of  them  bowed.  "  You  would,  would  you," 
I  says,  for  they  was  lifting  the  ends  of  their  ugly  mouths 
at  I.  And  I  passed  among  they  and  them  did  quail  and 
crouch,  being  with  fear.  And  me  and  mine  did  reach  the 
place  what  was  on  the  top.  "  See  now  yourselves,"  I 
says,  "if  so  be  that  you  do  not  go  in  blindness  and  in 
dark."  'Twas  May  what  stood  there  aside  of  I.  And 
"  Look  you,"  I  says,  "  over  the  bended  necks  of  you 
my  child  shall  pass.  For  you  be  done  to  death  by  the 
lies  which  growed  within  you  and  waxed  till  the  bodies 
of  you  was  fed  with  them  and  the  poison  did  gush 
out  from  your  lips."  But  my  little  child  stood  in  the 
light,  and  the  hands  of  her  was  about  the  stars. 

HARRY.  [Coming  in.]  Look,  they  be  all  a-coming 
over  the  meadow,  old  Missis.  But  May  han't  corned 
with  they — May  han't  come  too. 

[The  wedding  party  enters  the  room  as  the  curtain  falls.] 


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